Is it hell or paradise?
by Syntia13
Summary: G1. A Wheeljack-made space-bridge sent a group of Autobots to a world that is... flourishing under Decepticon rule? That can't be right... right?
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer**: This is a work of fanfiction, meaning I only own OCs and plot - though not really, since the idea for this fic came from the Padded Cell message board. A totally random title thread, to be precise. I changed the title and part of the crew, but the main idea remained.

**A/N: **The time indicators are important for the story, and I really hope I won't mess it up. 'Mondern' is a month, made up just for convenience. (Because I don't like to write 'day 1', 'day 2', and so on).

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**Is it hell or paradise**?

_A Wheeljack-made space-bridge sent a group of Autobots to a world that is... flourishing under Decepticon rule? That can't be right... right?_

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**Prologue**

-0-

The reason why a small, mismatched group of Autobots was out in the woods in the mid June of 2001 was that, after long years of trying, Mirage finally managed to sneak past Shockwave's defenses, hack into his computer and provide Autobots with the schematics of Decepticons' most precious technological advantage.

And so a small, prototype space-bridge was assembled under careful hands and optics of Wheeljack and Perceptor. Grapple was there as an additional pair of skilled hands, and Hoist tagged along to keep him company, as well as to act as paramedic in case of any... unpredictabilities (_no offence, Wheeljack, no one implies anything will blow up!_). Skyfire, as per usual, served as a transport. Hound, who knew the whole terrain by heart was their 'guide to secluded places', and Beachcomber, with his super-sensitive, wide-range, multitasking sensors was there to choose the best location of those that Hound proposed. Sideswipe, Sunstreaker and Pipes officially went as bodyguards - unofficially they were on a punishment detail after last round of the ongoing 'Lamborghinis vs. Minis' prank war. And Mirage came with simply because he was curios of his efforts outcome.

And the outcome was... curious. It involved complicated equations that perhaps Perceptor would be able to grasp, but for the benefit of beings not accustomed with six-dimentional geometry and four-level warp physics (most of the universe, really), we shall simplify the process.

The Decepticons were shipping a batch of energon to Shockwave's tower.  
Wheeljack was trying to send a radio-transmitter to Elita's hideout.  
The two created wormholes were, in the scale of cosmic phenomena, ridiculously close to each other. Wheeljack's wormhole, being more of a wormholing than a serious transgalactic transport route, collapsed into its bigger sister. The backlash caused Wheeljack's space bridge to-- no, NOT explode. Merely to malfunction, and suck in all present Autobots, along with some shrubbery.

In the Decepticon tower Shockwave turned a surprised and angry glare at the enemy strike unit. With the reflexes of an old soldier he transformed and, ready to fire, looked through his sights to see a pile of energon and five very surprised Combaticons.  
"What are you doing, slagger?" Brawl growled, shifting into a battle stance.  
"I didn't touch a cube!" Swindle whined, hiding behind Onslaught and hastily but discreetly emptying his subspace pockets of everything that shouldn't be there.

Shockewave checked the scanner readings to make sure that those were indeed Combaticons, and not Autobots under a hologram, and slowly uncoiled into a root mode.  
"Enhanced security measures," he said in monotone. He had a reputation to upkeep. Hallucinating a bunch of invading Autobots wouldn't go well with his image.

"Commendable," Onslaught drawled, and stepped out of the space bridge ring. "especially in the current situation." He smirked, knowing perfectly well that Shockwave wouldn't be happy with the next bit of news. "Megatron sends orders to prepare Cybertron for his arrival. The Decepticons are pulling out from Earth."  
Shockwave groaned inwardly.

Let us leave the self-proclaimed guardian of Cybertron to his worries, and go back to the Autobots. They had a split second to notice the surprised and angry glare Shockwave sent their way, before a rightful passengers of the space bridge arrived. The pressure caused by a mass attempting to exit a wormhole into already occupied space caused the Autobots to be effectively booted out of there, back into the mid-dimensional void. They might have ended up as another piece of debris lost beyond space and time, but, luckily for them, there was another functional spacebridge close by - just a reality away.


	2. Chapter 1: Colors

**Chapter 1**

**Colors**

-1-

-1-

* * *

_ The second star to the right and straight on till four millions years ago..._

_**Nemesis**__ shook and creaked under strain. Few Decepticons left behind on the battle ship watched the monitors with wide optics, completely paralyzed by fear - until Ramjet, who was the one with the least imagination, therefore least susceptible to the fear of unknown menace, realized what was going on, and gave Dirge a solid whack on the head. "Stop projecting, you moron!" he growled, and pushed himself toward the ship's controls. Thrust followed him, while Dirge moaned, gripping his head. He really hated when Ramjet did that, even if giving him a bad migraine _was_ the best way to stop his uncontrolled broadcasting of subliminal, fear inducing sound. _

_By the time he made sure that no, his cranium hadn't been smashed halfway in, his wingmates pulled __**Nemesis**__ out of the gravitational well and had her stabilized on a safe orbit. Having the important thing taken care of, they radioed Megatron for orders. To their slight surprise, the radio responded with silence. Ramjet felt gazes of his wingmates on him. He really hated when they did that. Just because he wasn't prone to panicking didn't mean he wanted to be the one making the executive decisions. It was a pain in circuits, often literally, if Megatron didn't approve of the results. But the pair of morons he was stuck with just stared at him and waited to be told what to do, and they could keep it up for eternity. He didn't want to be stuck here that long.  
"Let's contact Shockwave," he said._

* * *

_ The first of Mondern, middle of first shift_

The small space-bridge beeped and opened, spilling out a bunch of groaning Autobots. A mech recharging peacefully behind the desk jumped and looked at them with bleary optics.  
"Hey!" he complained after a moment of staring at the moaning heap of bots on his floor. "This is an eight standard-size bots bridge! And you're supposed to chime in before jumping!"  
The chorus of '_my gyros are killing me_' quieted and he was meet with twenty two uncomprehending optics. A moment of confused silence passed.

Gaping at the strange bot, who had yellow optics and familiar in design, but wrong in color insignia on his chest, Sideswipe felt compelled to comment. "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore." It earned him a smack from his brother. "We weren't in Kansas to start with, dumb-aft." "It's a turn of phrase, glitch-stitch!"  
"What?" The yellow-opticed mech automatically checked his computer, curious as to where in the galaxy a bridge station called -'can-zas' could be, and got a 'source unknown' message. He looked again at the bots who were gingerly picking themselves up, noticed the rather exotic frames, scrutinized the organic-looking green rubbish that arrived with them, and drew the only logical conclusion. "Stupid off-worlders! You used a home-made bridge station, and didn't even patch it in the system, didn't you?"

There was a massive turning of heads. A bot with funny-looking vocal indicators shifted uneasily under the attention. "Well, it worked, didn't it?" he said with a forced cheerfulness.  
"Worked," the yellow-optics repeated with scowl. "You're freaking lucky I kept the bridge running, you'd have rebounded and ended up Primus knows where otherwise. What were you aiming at, anyway?"  
"Ah," Wheeljack quickly calculated the pros and cons of telling the truth versus lying to someone who wore this kind of insignia, and settled on telling a half-truth. "Outsides of Iacon," he said. Yellow-optics made a disapproving grunt. "Well at least you got the planet right. But next time, fragging radio ahead and let the professionals do the math, ok? You could have arrived as a glop of molten slag, and I'd be the one to clean it, you know?"  
"Oh poor you," Sunstreaker sneered. That insignia was making his fingers itch for a fight, even if it was green. Sideswipe obviously shared the sentiment, for he send him a text message. :_'what u think? take'im down & ask q-s later?':  
:'If he doesn't drop the attitude in two cycles', _he sent back.

Unaware of the danger he was in, Yellow-optics typed few keys on his terminal. "You want me to toss you forward to Iacon, or are you staying here? T'would be two jumps, fifty credits per person, paid up front." He looked at them expectantly.  
"Here is fine," Wheeljack decided quickly. Yellow-optics grimaced. "Thought so," he murmured, and rummaged on his desk for a stack of small plastic cards he pushed toward them. "Here. One for each," he said, and then he sighed, turned off his optics and started reciting in a dead-bored tone of a person who said that countless times before and didn't see much sense in it.

"Welcome to the fabulous city of Vos. The standard credit chips aren't compatible with Vos banking systems, so you are granted with Vos credit cards. You need to activate them and transfer to them credits from your regular account. After that they can be used in the whole Vos District. Err... what else? Oh. Unless you've arrived on a specific invitation or work contract, you can stay in the city premises for ten days. After that period your account will be charged with 40 credits for each day of your prolonged stay. To avoid that you are either to leave the city, or place a petition for citizenship. If you wish to became permanent citizens, you have to get at least quarter-time job. Anything else? Oh, yeah. While in the city walls, you are under Vos law regulations and jurisdiction. If you violate any regulations, you will be dealt with accordingly." He sighed and rubbed his neck. "Anything else?"  
Sideswipe snorted. "You put all your spark in your job, don't you."  
Yellow-optics scowled at him. "Hey, they pay me ten credits per shift. I'm not gonna overstrain myself."  
"Guess 'ability to think' wasn't in job description, huh?"  
"Oh har, har, har. Get _out_ of my office. And the wash rack is just round the corner, we don't need off-world filth on the streets."

"Dude, that was unnecessary rude," Beachcomber murmured, as Skyfire, with amazing reflex and foresight, pushed both twins through the door and ushered the rest of them to follow.  
The yellow-opticed bot looked after them gloomily. There they went, free as you please, and here he had to stay for the rest of his shift. He really hated his life. He was contemplating going back to recharge, when a small beep from the scanner reminded him of something. "Oh," he said sitting up, "and when you leave this office, your ID chips will be scanned and your names and energy signatures will be send to the main city network for convenience and security purposes," he said to the empty door.

* * *

The door barely slid shut behind them, when Pipes spoke. "Did you see his optics?"  
"Did you see his _sigil_?" Beachcomber added.  
"Yeah, I did," Sunstreaker growled, wrenching his arm out of Skyfire's grasp, and the next second Wheeljack found himself lifted of the ground and pinned to the wall. "Just WHAT did you do this time?"  
"Sunstreaker, if you please," Perceptor stepped in to defend his colleague. "I hardly think Wheeljack is responsible for our predicament. I registered an unusual fluctuation in warp energy the instant his contraption was activated, and presumably it was this anomaly that caused our inadvertent translocation-" Sunstreaker dropped Wheeljack and rounded on Perceptor with a snarl. He was in a foul mood - he was filthy, low on energy, a bit queasy from the space bridge trip, and, above all, tired. He had came back to Ark from a double patrol shift, only to be sent away again as a punishment for whatever it was that Sideswipe did in his absence, only to be teleported to Primus-knows-where, with no recharge berth in sight. He was in no mood to endure Perceptor's know-it-all-ness. "I don't CARE what caused it," he hissed. "I want to know where the frell are we, and when are we going back." Perceptor took a startled step back, and Sideswipe decided it was time to intervene. "Hey, easy bro," he said, tugging at Sunstreaker's arm, at the same time sending :_'Come on. Wash rack's round the corner. You'll feel better'_: on their private channel. It worked like a charm.

-1-

"There's nothing to worry about," the red Lamborghini said cheerfully, rolling back and forth under a stream of hot air. "We'll just board Skyfire and fly back home, just like you did that one time, right, Perceptor?"

"I'm afraid the current situation is exceedingly more complex," the addressed scientist said, polishing one of his crystal clean lenses with a worried expression. "I will require more sufficient data before drawing a final conclusion, however the brief encounter with that mechanism-"  
"The color confused Decepticon?" Sideswipe specified. Perceptor looked at him, perplexed by the weird description, and Wheeljack decided to take over. "Yes, him. He mentioned Vos and Iacon, so I'd say we're on Cybertron, but..." he spread his hands helplessly, encompassing in this gesture their entire surroundings. Sideswipe nodded. "But it doesn't look like Cybertron. Not like it is now, anyway," he added after a moment, and all present understood what he meant. Both the 'office' they left not long ago and the washrack they were occupying at the moment had a definite cybertronish feeling to it - except for being a rusted, crumbling ruin, that is.  
"So..." Beachcomber ventured after a moment, "do you think we traveled through time?"  
"It is a possibility," Wheeljack admitted hesitantly. It happened before, after all - and he always suspected that the time machine Shockwave used to 'dispose' of Aerielbots was based on space-bridge technology. "But I rather think," he started, and was rudely interrupted.  
"What I think," Sunstreaker said, tearing his hostile glare from a wax dispenser (contrary to more basic cleaning functions, waxing was apparently paid in advance, and the credit card they got, while very nice and shiny, were depressingly credit-less), "is that we should _move, _ and _before_ the bolts-for-brain back there realizes we shouldn't be here. _Then_ we find a place to hide and rest, and _then_ you can theorize all you want."  
"You're a real ray of sunshine today, bro," Sideswipe muttered, transforming into a root mode.  
"He is right," said a gentle, and slightly concerned voice behind him. "We should at least find a safe place where we can settle and think this over," Hound continued. He was perhaps the only mech beside Sideswipe who picked up on the 'rest' part of Susntreaker's tirade, and realized why exactly the yellow warrior was so irritable. So he decided to spoke up and, because he was Hound, they listened to him and two minutes later they were following numerous signs on the walls that promised to lead them to an exit door. The journey didn't took long. "Here goes," Wheeljack murmured, warily poking a locking pad.

And the gateway opened before them.  
And they stepped out into the light.  
And they beheld the fabulous city of Vos

And they stared.  
And stared.  
And stared.

"Oh, wow." Sideswipe finally commented.  
"Do you think we hit the rush hours?" asked Hoist.

* * *

It was a typical vossian architecture, Grapple informed them, leaning over the barrier in a vain attempt to spot the ground. Iacon used to be known for its pyramidal buildings, Kaon for fondness for underground levels, and Vos for its inhabitants motto: if there's a free space, use it. And so a multitude of tall buildings was packed as tightly as physically possible, and since there was still free space left, every four floors a tangle of walkways, parkways, stairways and platforms hanged suspended between the buildings, marking a level. Looking up, they counted about eight levels under the grayish sky, and there were at least fifty more below them. And there were bots _everywhere_. A multicolored crowd bustled and hassled around them, and it soon became obvious that if the mech they met first was 'color confused', then so were all others.  
"Did you see that guy?" Pipes' head rotated almost full 180, as he looked back at the mech already disappearing in the crowd. "His optics were black! He looked like a walking corpse!"  
"He just shut them off for a moment," Sideswipe said, shrugging.  
"No, he saw I stared, and he winked at me."  
Sideswipe's optics flickered in a confused blink. "How could he wink if there was no light in his optic?"  
"He shuttered it, just like humans do," Pipes said, and Sideswipe took a moment to contemplate the mental image. "Creepy," he eventually judged with a shudder.

The same color liberty seemed to applied to insignias as well. Every second bot they saw sported a badge with Decepticon 'foxface', but, what was curious, they seemed to come in every color of rainbow _except _purple. At least it meant that their own badging mostly went unnoticed. After almost two Earth hours of wandering, only about a dozen of bots noticed the boxy design of their insignias. In most cases it earned them annoyed, irritated or slightly disgusted look. Two cases were different.

"Look." Sunstreaker said suddenly, poking Sideswipe and nodding toward the opposite walkway. A medium sized bot just jumped halfway from the stairway to a walkway, earning few complaints from his startled neighbors. What drew to him Sunstreaker's attention though, was that he had a green 'foxface' on his chest - and a red Autobot symbol just beneath it.  
"Now that's new," Sideswipe said, and poked Hound and Mirage. "Look."  
The bot must have sensed a collective stare, for he turned to them, giving them a challenging glare that changed as soon as his gaze swept over their insignias. He grinned widely and raised a hand in a strange gesture - like a high five, but with tips of first and fifth finger pressed together. "Peace, brothers!" he called merrily, before stepping into the lift and disappearing out of sight.  
"That was rather strange," Mirage remarked as they moved along.

-1-

The other encounter was radically different.  
"Bunch of punks," an aggressive voice suddenly snarled. "You think it's fun to wear that mark, huh?" The bot who was speaking got right into Perceptor's face and poked him not too gently in the chestplate. "You even been there to know what it mean, huh? Huh?"

Before perplexed scientist could say anything beyond 'I beg your pardon', there was a sound o a few swift steps and the aggressive mech was yanked back.  
"You got a problem, pal?" a small green and white bot asked, narrowing his optics. He had a dark blue insignia clearly standing out against his white chestplate, and his size and demeanor reminded the Autobots of Powerglide. One could wonder why the new arrival sought a quarrel with a bot twice his size - but only until one looked behind him and up, at his friend who was slightly taller than Skyfire, and observed the scene with a quiet scorn.  
The troublemaker's optics flickered between the two of them, and he visibly wilted.  
"It shouldn't be allowed, is all I'm saying," he mumbled, and walked away hastily, followed by a watchful gaze of the tall mech. The short one gave Perceptor once over, barely perceptibly scowling at the autobot mark. "You all right?"  
"I'm functioning at the optimal parameters, thank you. I am grateful for your assistance, officer."  
"Humpf. Whatever." The bot scrutinized the group of Autobots and turned to leave. "Just keep out of trouble, the lot of you."  
"I assure that we have no hostile intention-" Perceptor started, and was stopped by a hand on his neck yanking him slightly back.  
"Officer?" Sideswipe queried in an undertone near the scientist's audio.  
"If you please..." Perceptor freed himself from the warrior's grip. "I believe I discerned a connection between the coloration scheme-"  
"Color of the sigil marks the guy's function," Sunstreaker cut in rudely. "Green for pad-pushers, red for shopkeepers, yellow for city service and blue for law enforcement. You'd of noticed it too, if you used your CPU for five seconds, moron."

Sideswipe ignored the insult, which he knew was more of a mood indicator than anything else, and looked around. Yes, the color pattern was there, though he'd be damned if it was possible to spot without being told of it first. But then again, Perceptor was famous for his perceptiveness, and Sunstreaker always had an optic for little details like that. "All right," he murmured grudgingly. "So now we know to avoid the blue ones."  
He turned, made two steps and discovered yet another thing they should avoid - namely shuttles flying over almost low enough to take someone's head off. With an expletive curse Sideswipe tumbled to the ground, took a second to gathered himself and his wits, and looked up just in time to watch as the shuttle, closely followed by fighter-jet, transformed in midair and landed on the walkway. Sideswipe felt all his battle protocols kicking on-line.  
For a moment he was sure it was Astrotrain and Blitzwing, but no, it was another pair of pushy morons who happened to be hanging out together and wear purple. He only had a moment to register that, before two pair of hands were helping him up, Mirage maneuvering himself to block their both insignias from the Decepticons' sight, and Hound murmuring insistently in his audio that they couldn't draw attention to themselves. Geez, like they really thought he was dumb enough to start a fight in the middle of what looked like few millions of Decepti-spawn.  
"All right, I'm cool," he said, wrenching himself free, all the while watching the Decepticons for any hostile moves, and was slightly offended that they didn't even look his way. Instead, their gaze skimmed over the neighborhood, accompanied by few derogatory comments, and then they strode away, sneering and pushing people aside as if they owned the place.  
Few steps away, the familiar police-bots watched the pair of Decepticons, and the small one was talking into his comlink.  
"... for units in sector H-3Q, there's a pair of high-ups heading your way."  
-:Government or military?:-  
"Military. They look bored and off-duty." A chorus of complaints filtered through the radio, and the police-bot smirked. "Have fun, slaggers," he said, cutting the connection. His colleague sighed. "You need to work on your social skills, you know that, right?"

Behind the constables back, Sideswipe looked at his brother. "Purple for royalty?" he offered.  
"Looks like it," Sunstreaker murmured, hiding his weapons.

* * *

_ The first of Mondern, beginning of second shift_

The yellow-opticed bridge operator walked out of the building, a scowl plastered on his faceplate. The guy who came to take over the second shift had thrown a fit over the mess in and outside the bridge, and forced him to stay extra few breems to clean it, the stupid slagger. If he wanted to mop the floors, he'd work in city service. And now he was late for the first race at the Nino Track. His life really sucked. Scowling even deeper, Yellow-optics started toward the nearest lift, and suddenly stopped. Oh damn, he'd forgotten to send the data from his computer to the city network. For about a second he entertained the idea of going back to do this. Then he shrugged and went on. His overzealous co-worker would surely do that anyway.

* * *

_ The first of Mondern, nearing the middle of second shift_

Sideswipe was getting more and more worried with each passing hour. His stupidly proud glitch of a brother wouldn't admit there was anything wrong, but Sideswipe knew perfectly well that without a decent recharge and/or refueling, the golden warrior would soon shut down from exhaustion. But would he say even a word to hurry up the rest of them to find a place to rest already? Of course not. He'd just get more and more jittery and growly and all-over unpleasant, until he collapsed in the middle of the street. And guess who'd have to drag his sorry aft along when that happened? That's right, yours truly.  
Sideswipe eyed the vending machine they were passing. It would be easy to hijack it and get some energon cubes... only there was a pair of cops standing quietly in the nook just few steps away. Frag it, they were freaking everywhere!  
"Emergency ration, anyone?" a kind voice asked up ahead and Sideswipe looked up sharply, to see a very welcome sight of several black rods in Hound's palm. And even though the question was directed to the Autobots in general, the scout's offering hand was practically in Sunstreaker's face, bless his spark. For a split second Sideswipe worried that his brother would snarl something about not needing anyone's favors, but no, no-one was being rude to Hound. With a reluctant "Thanks" Sunstreaker took one rod and nibbled on it.  
With a wide grin, Sideswipe rushed forward and grabbed three rations before anyone could beat him to it. "Hound, I could kiss you," he announced happily, making a show of gobbling half of a rod in one go. It tasted like old rust remover, but it gave a bot a nice energy boost, and that was what mattered. And now he had two and a half rations to smuggle to his brother at a later date. Hound just smiled knowingly, and turned to distribute the rest of his stash. Not surprisingly, Pipes was the only one to accept the offer - for the rest the unfortunate bridge-trip was their first working shift, not second or third.

-1-

"So are we going someplace particular, or are we just wandering around, hoping to find the yellow-brick road?" Sideswipe asked twenty minutes later. They were now standing on one of the numerous platforms, removed from the traffic just enough to give them some measure of privacy. Hoist and Grapple were observing with interest a nearby construction site, while the more nerdy part of the group crowded around a machine marked as a 'City Guide' in bold, bright letters. Wheeljack gave the red warrior a pitiful look. "I thought we should exit the city before taking any other action," he said, flashing a tired, pale blue. "But by the looks of it..." he waved at the 3D map on the screen, "we've landed downtown. It will take us hours to even reach the outskirts."  
"So I'm stuck in the middle (of the city) with you," Sideswipe sighed theatrically.  
"Sideswipe," growled a voice from the vicinity of his elbow, and he turned to see his twin, sprawled on a small bench, glaring. "If you don't stop with the obscure human references, I'm gonna crack your helmet open and delete them _manually_. It's not funny even when Jazz's doing it."  
:_'Good t c ur feelin better, bro.':  
:'I'm not. Isn't there any motel in this goddamned, Decepticreep-ridden city?'_:  
Sideswipe stared for a moment. "That's... a very good question. Wheeljack are there..." he frowned and waved his hand. "Nah, never mind." He looked around, pondered a moment, and started carefully peeling the red sigil off his chestplate. This immediately earned him undivided attention.  
"Siders, _what_ are you doing?"  
"It's commonly known as blending in. I'll be right back," he said, and deftly slid down the handrail, landing half a level below, near one of the catwalks leading to the construction site.

There were about two dozen workers there, and by the looks of it they were on a break right now. Whether it was scheduled, or were they just waiting for the pair of supervising engineers to stop arguing was anyone's guess. The group of Autobots watched in tense silence as the red figure approached the loitering bots and started talking animatedly. For a few minutes the workers listened patiently, and then one of them suddenly gave a loud whistle - a universal, 'oy, everybody, come over here!' signal. And as his teammates responded, some of them climbing up from the lower floor, it became apparent that there were more than two dozen of them. Closer to fifty, in fact. And they all came to crowd around a very much lonesome Sideswipe. The tension among the watching Autobots could be easily measured in megabars. "Shouldn't we..." Pipes started.  
"No," Sunstreaker said rather nonchalantly, though he, too, watched the scene like a golden hawk. "He's cool."

And sure enough, few moments later Sideswipe made his way back toward the catwalk. In the middle of it he turned and waved. "Thanks guys, I owe ya!" he called.  
"Yeah, a hundred creds!" one of the workers called back with a laugh.

And just a few moments later the red twin was climbing up the stairs, a wide grin threatening to split his face in two. He hadn't looked so smug since the day the entire commanding stuff woke up painted various shades of orange, with no solid proof leading to the culprit. He wave a rather battered sheet of plastic. "This is called trash-card," he said happily. "Kind of like human banknotes. Can hold up to two hundred credits, we have ninety eight on this one. The vending machines are a spawn of greedy companies bent of exploiting the poor, run off their feet working class, and we should rather spare few breems to look for a regular energon store, and if we're really broke and desperate, then there's always the fountain on the main plaza - but don't ask what that means, I have no clue. And here's the really important bit o' city lore - the cheapest and least frequented motels are at the topmost level, and an uplink terminal is considered a standard furniture, so you can browse info-net all you want, while I catch up on my beauty nap."  
"Whoa, wait!" Beachcomber looked disbelieving and awed at the same time. "Did you just talk a group of complete strangers into giving you money?"  
"Lending, 'Comber, lending. Yep, I did. Now, ditch this guide machine and get your afts in gear. We have a date with topmost level."

* * *

The topmost level was composed of rooftops and relatively few houseblocks scattered here and there. The sky over it was not gray, but sapphire blue. It was also almost painfully bright, and the air was shimmering from the heat. Autobots' fans kicked in the high gear in the middle of the last ramp. "Phew," Beachcomber whizzed, doubling over in an almost human gesture. "Why is it so insanely hot up here?"  
"Well," a strange voice answered brightly from somewhere above, "I'd say it's because it's high noon, obviously. Plus, some genius thought it would be funny to let a batch of retro-rats loose in the wiring, never stooping to think that they might chew out the whole freaking district - which they did - and with absolutely no consideration for the fact that your's truly is the only SC willing to scorch his plating up here, and I can only repair one lamp at a time. And who's asking anyway?" A medium size green bot perched precariously on the top of a lamppost leaned down to peek at them curiously. "You new in the district? Haven't been yelled at by you before." He scrutinized the Autobots' upturned faces and snorted. "Geez, blue optics, that's hardcore. Nice hue, though. Move away a bit, I'm going down."  
And before any of them could blink, the stranger made a rather show-offish double flip, caught a loose cable and slid down to the pavement. Grinning just a bit smugly, he opened a panel on the lamppost and put his finger on a switch. "And Primus said..." he flicked the switch, "...let there be shade." At the top of the lamppost, two of four spheres buzzed with energy, and a cloud of greyness slowly expanded from them, enveloping the nearby streets. The rapid decrease in temperature was almost touchable. They could now look at the sky without putting on five layers of filter, and, without the skyscrapers to obscure the the view, they could easily spot the source of the heat. Or rather, sources.  
"_Two_ suns," Sideswipe murmured. "Bloody hell."  
Sunstreaker wasn't amused. "Siders. I'm warning you."  
The red twin grinned and patted the yellow one on the back. "It wasn't even a direct quote, and you still recognized it. I'm proud of you."  
:'_As soon as I have the energy to lift my hand, you are spare parts, bro.'_:  
: 'I 3 u 2':

"WRENCHWRETCH!" Someone hollered from a block away. "Get your rear in gear and repair the slagging lamps already!"  
"I'm working on it!" the green bot hollered back. The distant bot wasn't impressed. "Work faster! My goods are melting!" he called, and ducked back into his shop. The bot now identified as Wrenchwretch made a face. "That's gratitude for you. I'm already working unpaid overtime, and the slagger knows it." He unsubspaced a dark bottle and took a swing. Then he frowned and shook the container, in vain attempt to squeeze out few more drops. "And now I'm out of coolant. The day is just getting better and better." With a sigh, he chucked the empty bottle in the nearest recycle bin, and started toward the next inoperative lamp. "So where are you damaged, me beauty, and how long will it take to fix you, eh?" He tapped the diagnostic panel, and was rewarded with a shower of sparks and smoke. "That's not what I wanted to hear, babe."  
Sideswipe saw it coming. It was in the hungry look Wheeljack was giving the dark 'lamps', and in incline of Perceptor's head; in the way Hoist seemed to be measuring the hight of the lamppost, and in the sympathetic look on Grapple's face.  
"We don't have-" Sideswipe started.

"Would you mind if I helped you with that?" Wheeljack asked. Wrenchwretch looked over his shoulder, blinking in surprise. "Huh? What, you've got some good-willers quota to fill? No, sorry, that was rude. Sure, I could use a hand. Just don't expect me to pay for it." Wheeljack hurried to assure that no payment was needed, and seconds later the geek-squad was crowding around the CS, asking for schematics, removing the panels and generally making a lot of fuss.  
"-time," Sideswipe finished. "And people say I have a short attention span. Do they even remember we're Primus-knows-when with no means to get back home?"  
"Don't know, don't care," Sunstreaker growled, striding toward the gathering purposefully. He reached over Wheeljack, and hoisted the green bot by his neck. "Nearest motel. Where."  
Predictably, Wrenchwretch flailed and pretested against his new position. "Ow, ouch! Watch it! Aren't you guys opposed to all violence?" Sunstreaker narrowed his optics threateningly.  
"NOT after almost three full unscheduled working shifts," he hissed. The green bot winced sympathetically. "Ouch. Got you." He jerk his thumb. "Redcog's place. Crappy, but cheap, cheap but crappy. Two blocks ahead, one block left. A patched up shack that looks like something Devastator chewed up and spat out, can't miss it." Sunstreaker humphed something that might be interpreted as 'thanks', and let the smaller bot drop to his feet. Unfazed, Wrenchwretch continued. "If 'Cog doesn't answer the door, holler at him like it's a super-nova alert, and if he still doesn't answer, just let yourself in. He'll find you once he unplugs himself from the deepnet. Oh, and don't, under any circumstances, use the dispenser in the corridor. Unless you like purging your tanks, that is."  
Since Sunstreaker was already stomping away, Sideswipe took it on himself to grin disarmingly. "Thanks for the heads up. To return the favor - you see this guy?" He pointed at Wheeljack, who immediately put on undignified look. "Don't let him near anything that might explode, even a soda can."  
Wrenchwretch snorted. "Soda don't explode, you know."  
Sideswipe nodded his head solemnly. "We thought so too. Alas, poor Swoop..."  
"Huh?"_  
__:'Siders, do you have a death wish?':_

* * *

___The first of Mondern, end of second shift_

"Welcome to the fabulous city of Vos," a tall white bot said with a charming smile, handing the new arrivals their credit cards. He went through the whole speech with a practiced ease, making the many time rehearsed words sound like spontaneous good advices from an old friend. "...for your convenience and safety purpose. Have a nice evening!"  
The door closed behind a pair of femmes, and the white bot turned to the computer screen. He prepared the upload to the main network, and frowned as he found thirteen files waiting in line instead of two.  
"What the-" he checked the time of files creation, and thumped the desk. "Why, that lazy glitch of a drone! That's it, I'm reporting him." Angrily, he pulled out a data pad to fill in a complaint against his co-worker. Before he went to that, however, he dutifully tapped few keys, uploading the files into the system.  
They were routinely scanned, sent to police mainframe, and run through few security lists. And one of the names hit the medium priority alert. The police bot on safety-net duty pulled up the file to his screen, read it dispassionately, and send the report to his superior. The superior read the report, frowned, and put the information in the city-wide security system. Within two breems, every police- and security-bot in the city of Vos was aware that there was an unwelcome guest on the streets.

* * *

_**A/N**: This is planned out to be 11 chapters long. Wasn't beta read, and I worked on it mostly at work, where I only have MS word's thesaurus as a dictionary, so if you notice a glaring word misuse, please notify me. Concrit and grammar advices are welcomed and deeply loved._

A/N2: Right now, I hate FF net with a passion. What the FRAG is their problem with non-letter symbols? And with a readable spacing and formatting? Do they want to discourage us from writing or what? Just FYI, the message that Sideswipe sent to Sunny should read " I 'heart' u 2" , but ff won't let me use 'less' symbol. Oh well.


	3. Chapter 2: Commerce

**Disclaimer:** This is a work of fanfiction, meaning I only own OCs and plot - though not really, since the idea for this fic came from the Padded Cell message board. A totally random title thread, to be precise. I changed the title and part of the crew, but the main idea remained.

Thank you, D. Mischief, BlueBomberMobile, Meirelle, yohaidee, Vedda, Hemlock Dalise! Thank you so much for the reviews! They give me strength! :)

-2-

-2-

**Chapter 2****  
****Commerce**

-2-

-2-

* * *

_**The second star to the right and straight on till four millions years ago...**_

_Astrotrain brought the Constructicons to the estimated area of __**Ark**__'s landing and opened the hatch almost before he stopped. The Constructicons piled out immediately, and it was obvious both parties were very glad to finally be away from each other. Hook looked around with disgust that bordered on dread, and declared that they'd better find Megatron fast, because he wanted OUT of this dirty mud ball as soon as possible.  
However, that was much easier said than done. None of the missing Decepticons responded to radio hails, and any traces that a landing/crashing __**Ark**__ might have left had been effectively erased by the planet itself - Constructicons very fast learned to hate the local weather with a passion. Having to track down one of your teammates by faint magnetic resonance only, and dig him out from under a dune after he'd been struck by a lightning can have that effect on a bot.  
It was only the fact that Shockwave wouldn't let Astrotrain pick them up if they didn't find their missing leader first that kept them from giving up the search. They had long before come to a conclusion that Megatron and his crew was either dead, or otherwise incapacitated beyond the point of self-recovery. It wouldn't be an issue if they could find the slagmaker, but since they couldn't...  
"What about repair beam?" Scrapper asked, absentmindedly sketching blueprints on the wall of a makeshift bunker and listening to the howls of wind.  
"What about it?" Bonecrusher asked, twisting another nut in a neat 8.  
"If we could amplify the power and adjust the beam to penetrate silicon layers, and made few sweeps over the presumed crash site..." The Constructicons raised their heads and shared a thoughtful look. And then they got up, and got to work._

* * *

_The first of Mondern, end of second shift_

"Would you believe that this was the cheapest energon the guy had in store?" Sideswipe said, sipping at a cube. "He was surprised I wanted to buy it at all." He took another swing of the shimmering liquid, which was about 5 percent more energy rich and with half as many impurities as what they produced on Earth. "Makes you wonder what the high quality is like. You wanna have the last grease treat, Pipes?"  
The blue minibot cursed him to the Pit and back, and doubled over the waste bin to once again purge his empty tanks. Hound stroked his back soothingly, and shot a reproachful look at Sideswipe, who had the decency to look sheepish - for about one second. After all, Pipes pitiful condition was only indirectly his fault.  
When he first entered the nourishment shop, the same whose owner was so concerned about his melting goods, he intended to grab just an energon cube per person. However, the moment he opened the door his olfactors were assaulted with the smell of hot, refined grease, and he went a little wild.  
Grease treats, along with many other small pleasures of life, had gone extinct soon after the war started. There simply wasn't time and resources to make them, and everyone got used to getting their lubricants during medical check-ups. So, even though they were half melted and far from finely refined, the Autobots pounced on the treats like vultures. For Pipes it was something entirely new, since he'd been sparked during the war, and he reacted much like a human child to their first chocolate bar - with unrestrained enthusiasm. Too late he discovered that his systems weren't accustomed to assimilating solid lubricants in this manner. The subroutines responsible for sorting the consumed materials reacted with a short delay, and part of treats went were they shouldn't - straight to the fuel tanks. Pipes diagnostic computer interpreted the unusual substance as an influx of tainted energy - and reacted accordingly.

Sideswipe popped the last treat in his mouth, and glanced at the door impatiently. They had found the motel without problem and, following Wrenchwretch's advise, let themselves in - in the patchwork building, and in the biggest room they could find that didn't have a 'TAKEN! KEEP OUT!" note on a door. They discovered that the link-up terminal wasn't working. They pilfered the adjoining room for additional recharge berths, which they fit together, creating one gigantic recharge plate that filled two thirds of the room. They caught three hours of recharge before Wheeljack and Company finally showed up, brining in the smell of overheated metal, and making a hellish commotion, settling on said plate (Sunstreaker woke up for long enough to growl and roll out of the way). Sideswipe made a shopping trip, Pipes got sick, and all the while they didn't see so much as a servo of the place's owner. Sideswipe was beginning to wonder if the mech hadn't died of boredom and lack of customers, when the door opened with a protesting screech of badly maintained rollers. A bulky, slightly taller than the twins mech stuck his head into the room. The smell of old oil, stale energon and rust drifted in with him. Very slowly, he looked around, taking in the crowded room, and apparently got lost in his thoughts. Or maybe lost his thoughts, if the unfocused gaze was any indicator.

"You must be Redcog," Sideswipe said, getting up and approaching the mech. The only response he got was twitching of newcomer's arm - but that, he could bet, had more to do with the worn-out, sparking download port there than anything else. Sideswipe scowled and snapped his fingers in front of the blank face. It did the trick - the bot's CPU came back from whatever heights it had wandered to.  
"Five cre--ds for the roo--m for a shift," he said, extending his hand. His voice was filled with static, and his arm twitched again.  
"You need a card, you know," Sideswipe reminded. Redcog looked at his own empty hand with a surprised look, and unsubspaced a battered trash card, along with few broken bolts that clattered to the floor. "Oh," he said, looking down. "I was loo--king for that..."  
Sideswipe silently took the trash card out of the bot's hand, and tapped it with his own, transferring ten credits. Then he picked up the bolt pieces, and put them in bots twitching hand, along with the card - all in slow, deliberate movements. "Ten creds," he said in a loud, clear voice. "For two shifts. Now give me the key."  
"Key," Redcog focused on the numbers displayed on his trash card. "Tw--o shifts. Key." He looked and the oblong chips attached to his shoulder, then at the door, then at the chips. And at the door, at the chips, at the door...  
Still acting with uncharacteristic slowness, Sideswipe reached out and pulled at the chip with the glyph corresponding to the one painted inaptly on the door. Redcog looked at it critically, nodded uncertainly, and pressed a button on its side. Two little lights lit up. "Two shifts," he said, sounding pleased with the achievement, and left, leaving the key in Sideswipe hand.

"What was wrong with this guy?" Hound asked in bewilderment. Sideswipe just shrugged. He caught Beachcomber's and Hoist's sad, knowing gazes, before they looked away. None of them felt like explaining.  
"What do we need the key for?" Mirage wanted to know. "There is not a single working lock in this place."  
"It's in case the mech forgets we've already paid for the room," Sideswipe said. "Anyone knows how long the local shift is?" he asked.  
"Approximately 10,175 Earth hours," Perceptor supplied. "That is, if my estimation of the planet rotary speed is accurate, and the 'shift' period is indeed one third of the rotary cycle as I concluded form the conversation with--"  
"Ok, 10 hours, thanks," Sideswipe cut him off absently, looking out the door. Nope, his audio's weren't playing tricks on him - it _was_ Wrenchwretch, talking to Redcog near the main entrance. As Sideswipe watched, the green CS shook his head disapprovingly at the hotelier's scorched arm. "...you should go to Fastlane to have it looked at. And for Primus sake, go get some fuel, you're three percents from off-lining on your feet." Redcog murmured something and shuffled away, towards, Sideswipe presumed, his private piece of living space.

"Hey, mech!" Sideswipe called, drawing the CS's attention. "Is there a trick to our terminal, or is it just broken?"  
"My vast experience with fixing up this place says: eeet's broken." Wrenchwretch made his way to their room and tapped the touch pad on the terminal, sending a small pulse of energy into it. A booting up failed to happen. "Broken it is". The mechanic knelt and peeked under the console. Sideswipe crouched at his side. "Cheap and crappy, just as promised," he murmured quietly. "But you could have mentioned the owner was a hype." Wrenchwretch snorted. "What, the word 'deepnet' wasn't clue enough?" He intensified the brightness of his optics and glared at the hidden wires.  
"I must have missed it," Sideswipe lied smoothly, filing 'deepnet' under 'hack&crack'. "Any rage fits?"  
"Nah." Few suspicious wires were tweaked, separated and reconnected. "He's only danger to himself. This should do it." Wrenchwretch stood up and tried the touch pad again. The screen flickered to life, and kept flickering. With a sigh, the CS clenched his fist and thumped the wall just above it. The flickering ceased. "There. Just needed some love." He tapped few keys and gasped in a mock-shock. "And lo and behold, the connection works! The download speed sucks though. Good luck with being patient." He patted Sideswipe on the shoulder, and left with a cheerful 'Thanks for the help, guys,' addressed to Wheeljack&Co.

Perhaps download speed indeed sucked by here-and-now standards. But it was about ten times faster than what the best of human technology could offer back on Earth, so Sideswipe wasn't about to complain. It took him a moment to figure out the operating system, and he happily browsed the net for few breems, until Beachcomber noticed what he was looking at and demanded that he either started searching for important information, or turned over the terminal. After a short and quiet (no-one wanted to wake up Sunstreaker) squabble Sideswipe grudgingly relented, but insisted that he wanted to save the articles he'd found. That led to a discovery that the datapads they had were somewhat out of date. Fortunately, Pipes produced a handful of various adapters from subspace. Combining three of them allowed connecting the pad to the terminal, and Mirage was able to write a small program which converted files to something that their software recognized. After that Sideswipe was unceremoniously shooed from the only chair, and Mirage took his place. Murmuring something about ungrateful bunch, the red warrior clambered on the plate and crawled to his brother's side. He propped the pad against the wall and his chin on his hands, and started reading.

* * *

_The first of Mondern, one forth into the third shift_

Skyfire ducked out of the motel and looked around worriedly. Almost two Earth hours ago Sideswipe declared that he 'needed to stretch his legs', and departed to parts unknown. It wasn't till just a moment earlier that the scientist realized that, A) Sideswipe had all the money they had with him, B) the last time they paid him attention he was looking up entertainment and gambling centers, and C) his comlink wasn't responding. If this didn't spell trouble, nothing did.  
Not wanting to worry the others, Skyfire used the same excuse as the wayward warrior, and left the motel. Once outside, however, he was faced with a bit of a problem. How do you find a single mech in a Really Big City? The topmost level was all but deserted, but looking down over the banister he could see that just few levels down the city buzzed with life exactly the way it had when they arrived. Frowning softly, Skyfire strolled down the street, looking around in feeble hopes to catch a glimpse of the red paint. Instead he got a full view of something that for a long moment had him staring in wonder.

The suns were setting. The bigger, darker reddish one had already dipped halfway behind the horizon. Skyfire watched it mesmerized. Around him, one by one the dark lamps paled and shut down. The smaller, pale yellow sun slowly sunk down, quietly following its companion.  
One by one, the regular lamps switched on, powered by the energy that their dark counterparts absorbed during the day. The colors played on the sky.  
"Freaking gorgeous, ain't it?"  
Skyfire flinched and looked around. His obvious confusion was met with a quiet laugher.  
"Up here."  
Obligingly, the white Autobot looked up. On a haphazard, tall scaffolding someone had fastened a small platform, and on the platform an even smaller houseblock. Wrenchwretch was sitting at the edge of the platform, dangling his legs carelessly and sipping energon form a small cube. "Every century or so my bosses ask me if I don't want a transfer to a more 'civilized' district." He said amiably. "I tell them: no thanks, and they ask: are you _sure_?" He shook his head. "I live on the top of the city, and they're surprised I don't wanna go down. Just look at this." He waved a hand, and Skyfire instinctively looked at the rim of the setting sun and myriads of stars above. It took him a moment to realize that Wrenchwretch was rather looking at millions of lamps below.  
"I've got the best view in the city. How many bots can see the Police Department HQ, High Office building and the Solar Tower from the same window? And sunsets are particularly spectacular in this sol system too. I rather like it, you know. Lord Protector has a good taste when it comes to stars. Except, of course, that one 'brilliant' executive decision to park a planet next to a supernova." A sudden bitterness colored the last phrase.  
Skyfire's head jerked towards the mechanic sharply, as the bit about 'parking a planet' sank in. His startled reaction was obviously misread though, for Wrenchwretch raised his hands apologetically. "I know, I know. Tasteless and sparkless of me. Sorry about that. I just... get a bit edgy every time the anniversary comes around, you know what I mean?"  
Skyfire was about to say that no, he had no idea, when the relative silence of the night was suddenly shattered.  
"**Aaaaaaaaaaaaaa! WRENCHWRETCH!**" Someone screeched in the distance, a bit of hysteria coloring his voice.  
The mechanic raised his optics to the stars and reset his vocalizer.  
"**I'M OFF DUTY!**" He roared to the world in general.  
"**But there are RETRO-RATS in my walls!**" The distant voice wailed.  
"Oh-ho. A _big_ crisis. **COMING**!" Wrenchwretch made a backward somersault, rolled through open door into the small houseblock, and emerged seconds later, hefting an oversized rifle on his shoulder. "One extermination squad ready to go," he said cheerfully, sliding down to the street on a length of cable. "See you around, big guy!" He walked briskly down the street. Just before he rounded a corner, he bent to scoop up a crumpled bottle off the pavement, and chucked it in a recycle bin in passing.

Skyfire watched after him, small wistful smile playing on his lips. It was just so... normal. Normal people with their normal little problems. Broken lamps, melting goods, retro-rats under the floor. He had to fight a sudden, bizarre feeling that the last twenty years - the war, the hate, the devastated Cybertron - were all just a weird, stasis-induced dream. He sighed, almost wishing that it was true.  
But then, there was the other side to the idyllic picture. Somewhere down the timeline the war that Autobots so desperately fought must have been lost, and their lives taken, for the Decepticons to triumph. Mirage was still digging through the info-net, searching for any historical files that would tell them exactly how the present situation came to be. The unspoken and foregone conclusion was that they needed this information to avert the presumed defeat when - or if - they got back home.  
Although, if _this_ was what Decepticon empire looked like, should they?  
Skyfire shook the thought off. They didn't really see enough of this world to know if it was as good as it seemed at the first glance, and pondering such things was rather pointless anyway. So instead he took off, and started circling over the city in search of Sideswipe.

* * *

The bright neons shone brightly over a wasp-nest-shaped building, hanged in between the skyscrapers. It was relatively small establishment - it could hold perhaps fifteen thousands bots at best. Sideswipe was rather glad of the fact. It meant the tickets weren't too expensive.

He bounced in place slightly, observing the scene below with rapt attention. The quality of fighting pits had vastly improved since he and Sunstreaker were making their measly living through them, but the principle, the overall feeling, the _rhythm_ remained the same.  
The crowd roared as the fight on the arena progressed, part of it cheering, part of it furious, and part of it, including a noisy truck-former just one raw above Sideswipe, angrily demanding where the frell their high-grade was.  
Down at the arena, the gigantic train-former fell under the joined efforts of three delicate bike-formers, who climbed at his hulk and crowed their victory, until the referee announced it officially, and shooed the team away.  
The noise around Sideswipe changed its quality. The cheering bots typed at the small consoles in front of them to collect their winnings. The sulking/outraged bots thumped at the consoles, either complaining or placing bets for the next fight. Out of the small doors, scattered all over the stands, came the vendors, and the noisy truck-former finally got his high-grade, though not before throwing a fit over a steep price. And just to add the flavor to the racket, there was a constant buzz of static in the air - the result of private conversations, quarrels, and backstage information flying over the closed radio channels. It was that annoying buzz of breakthroughs that had made Sideswipe turn off his comlink. It was the first thing he did after entering the building. The second one was putting his sigil back in place, because, in the ultraviolet lighting of the stands, the not-faded patch of paint on his armor was sticking out like a sore thumb. He figured it was safer to walk around with a barely visible badging than a glowing mark in the shape of said badging.

On the arena, the defeated train-former scrambled to his feet and limped toward the medical, growling at the few bots who boo-ed at him. Sideswipe smirked, and for a moment watched the big screen displaying the fluctuating stakes for upcoming fights. If he read the sings right, there was no favorite for the next fight, which meant the gladiators were evenly matched, and the round would be long. Perfect. Sideswipe turned, and almost bumped into a vendor who was shaking his head at someone calling for him. "Sorry, I'm out!" the bot called, waving the empty tray as a proof.  
"Oy, watch it!" Sideswipe groused, ducking under the utensil, and made his way to the exit. Once outside, he stood still for a moment, remembering and comparing various places he'd passed by today. Then he quickly plotted the fastest and most efficient rout, fired up his jetpack and shot into the thicket of walkways.

Several breems later he was back, the subspace pockets almost overflowing. He sacrificed another five credits to get back in the building, and looked around. As he predicted, the fight was still on. At the far end of stand, there was a lone vendor, selling the last of goods off his tray, but in Sideswipe's immediate vicinity there was a visible lack of spectator service. A group of slightly tipsy bots nearby were already tossing empty cubes around, and asking were had the vendors gone to. Putting on his most charming smile, Sideswipe made his way toward them.  
"Low grade, mid grade, high grade?" he offered, whipping out the tray, which was filled with just enough items to draw customers' interest. Sure enough, the thirsty bunch pounced on him like vultures, and he remorselessly charged almost trice higher price than he paid for the goods himself. The funny part was, no one even flickered an optic. It was easy, really. All Sideswipe had had to do was watch the vendors for duration of few fights, getting the feel of the prices, and then make a trip to several stores few levels up, where the prices were lowest.

That was easy too. Sunstreaker walked through the streets memorizing what color people's detailing was without even trying. Sideswipe walked through the streets memorizing at what prices the merchants he passed sold their goods. Quite a pair they were, his brother and he, Sideswipe mused, meandering through the crowd. Two built gladiator-types, who couldn't care less for gladiator fights.  
"Got any coolant?" "At your service, sir! Credit per bottle." "That's a steal," the buyer grumbled, but pulled out his credit card nonetheless. He was kind of right, considering that at the store coolant cost credit a ten-pack, but hey, that's how the trade works! And Sideswipe knew his trade, down to the lowest dirty tricks.  
He refrained from producing eleven cubes out of ten, but had no qualms about selling mid-grade at the price of high-grade to bots who were already too sloshed to notice. He talked very fast, singing prizes to his rather mediocre stock, offering bonuses that were only profitable for himself. He even took a small torch to the tray, and the delicious smell of heated grease treats attacked people's olfactors, making them buy things they wouldn't even looked at at the store. And after they gobbled the treats, they quickly got very thirsty, and may, wasn't it a lucky coincident Sideswipe was there with a small supply of low-grade and coolant?

He would gladly admit it - this was Fun. And to make it even better, it was completely, one hundred percent _legal_. He'd checked, double-checked and then checked again, but all info-net sources were adamant. There was free commerce in Vos. Barring few specific goods, like weapons, hacks, ultra-grade and, strangely enough, carbonated hydrogen dioxide, you could sell or buy pretty much everything. At whatever public place you happened to be, at whatever price you could get, by whatever smooth lies you could come up with. There was no authority to stop you - on the contrary, the authority would encourage the initiative, because trade was what City of Vos lived on. There were no taxes, at least in the traditional form. Instead, equivalent of half a percent of every single transaction went from the buyer's account to the city's Treasury. The credit cards were hooked directly into the system, and the cash was transferred immediately, while the trash cards were programmed to stash the due amount until they were used on any kind of in-system vending machine, or exchanged in a bank for a new one. People were constantly feeding the big financial machine, and Sideswipe could bet that most of the time they weren't even thinking about it. Simply ingenious.

The sudden change in volume of the constant roar drew his attention to the arena. The green helo-former had his orange adversary pinned to the ground, and the referee just made the verdict. The victorious bot grinned widely, helped his ex-opponent to his feet and they hobbled to the medical, leaning against each other companionably.  
Sideswipe looked around quickly, to make sure no-one paid him attention. He shoved what was left on a tray into subspace, hid the tray under nearby sit and leaned against the wall nonchalantly. Selling anything? Me? What a wild idea. I'm just a sour spectator, here sulking because the orange wassaname lost.

The authorities wouldn't bother him. The competition was another story. Normally he wouldn't be bothered, being more than capable of explaining his point of view with few punches, but at the present situation drawing attention to himself was the last thing he wanted. After all, _someone_ had to be the responsible one in the group of scientists, aristocrats and artists. (And Pipes, but he was excused on account of never knowing a life outside the war). They had not an ounce of common sense among them. Education, yes. Intelligence, yes. Good taste, arguably. Common sense, no. They could think circles around Sideswipe when it came to sciences. But it wouldn't even occur to them to think things like, hey, we're in an unknown city with no supplies and no place to go, how about we try and make some money to get us by? So it was down to good old Sideswipe to keep the bunch safe and warm.  
Heh, he was _so_ going to rub it in the months to follow!

Down at the arena another fight started. About halfway into it, Sideswipe discreetly picked up the tray, and filled it with the amount of goods small enough to suggest that he'd been selling for a while, but not small enough for people to think he was selling off the leftovers.  
"A nickel bar, sir? It comes with a free coolant!"

* * *

Skyfire wasn't a city-lover by nature, but he had to admit that the City of Vos looked magnificent from the air. The main body of skyscrapers formed a semicircle, and nestled against its chord was a gigantic, though small by comparison, flat octagon on the planet surface level. Going by the City Guide, this had to be Main Plaza. Around the Plaza, low buildings of several universities crawled, and among them stood the solar tower. Or rather, the Solar Tower. It certainly deserved capital letters. It was easily the tallest building in the city, and that's saying something. Skyfire circled the dark solar panels, drawn in for the night, and glowing with the aircraft warning lights. Truly magnificent. It surpassed anything he remembered from the past, so fresh in his memory yet so faraway in reality.

A small patrol jet approached him and sent a hail, breaking his reverie. He was informed that he was nearing the security air space, and he should either lower the altitude, or ask for clearance to cross said space and leave the city. Having no intentions of leaving, Skyfire dived and the jet resumed his earlier route.  
If this was the rein of terror the Decepticons were bound to bring...

"Yo, Skyfire, are you there?" The shuttle started at the voice, only after a moment realizing it came from his comlink.  
"Skyfire here. What is it, Beachcomber?"  
"Hey, good to hear you. Where are you?"  
"Um... I passed the solar tower just a moment ago."  
"Ah. Night flying, I see. You didn't happen to see Sideswipe on the way, did you?" the geologist voice wasn't particularly concerned, but it wasn't very happy either. "He isn't answering his comlink."  
Skyfire sighed. "I know, I've been looking for him for some time now." _Although I got a bit distracted by sightseeing_.  
"Eh, he's probably just wandered somewhere downtown, the radio interference was pretty bad there," Beachcomber said reassuringly. "I'll keep the hail on; hopefully he'll call when he's back in range. You're coming back?"  
Skyfire hesitated. "I'll make few more rounds, maybe I'll run into him."  
"All right, enjoy your flight. And stay in touch, 'kay?"  
"Of course. Skyfire out."

* * *

_The first of Mondern, nearing the end of third shift_

"Hey kid, over here!"  
Sideswipe made his way to the calling bot, fighting the urge to laugh out loud. If he'd added all the millions of years he'd lived before and during the war, plus the period of stasis on Earth, plus however long it was they skipped to land here, he was probably much older than the majority of bots in the building - and he still got to be called a kid. Funny, in a twisted kind of way. And quite useful, too. People usually underestimated young bots.  
Sideswipe grinned disarmingly at the gray bot. "How can I be of service," he asked, and, noticing a discreet red blotch on the other's shoulder he hazarded adding "brother?"  
The bot scowled lightly. "Go on and shout it through the speakers, why don't you." He waved away the sheepish apology. "Never mind. You're new around here, I can tell. So, as one brother to another..." he leaned and started rummaging on the tray, "don't look now, but there's a mech standing near Exit Nine--"  
"Tall, red and black, dump truck of some kind?" Sideswipe interrupted in an undertone. "The one who's been staring at me for the last few breems?"  
"You've noticed?" A bottle of coolant was picked up, inspected and put back.  
"Yep. Who is he?"  
"Haulpack. Stands' owner. You should either go and talk to him right now, or vanish before he decides you've earned too much on his territory."  
"Ah." Sideswipe rotated the tray, offering the bot an energon cube. "And if I talk to him, how much of my profit he'll take?"  
"Last time I checked, he was taking twenty percent from the regulars. Form a newbie like you - donno, forty, maybe?" He picked up the cube and squinted at it critically. "What grade is it and how much?" "Twice filtered mid-grade, and on the house." Sideswipe took a step back and made a discreet wave with his hand. No-one but his interlocutor noticed that he pressed tips of first and fifth fingers together. The bot smirked and responded in kind. "Peace, kid. Now scram, before you get in trouble." Sideswipe snickered, making a mental note to check what was with that whole 'peace' business.  
"Sure, pops. And thanks for the warning."  
He made his way toward the exit, selling the rest of the stash as he went, not really caring if he made profit on that last transactions or not. He was already eighty credits ahead - and that's without the hundred he intended to pay back to the workers. There was no point pushing his luck. Eighty credits should be enough to see them all through for a few days, and if Wheeljack the boom-maker didn't figure out how to get them home by then... Well, he would worry about it in few days. For now, he reveled in the sense of a job well done.

* * *

Skyfire landed on a platform, very grateful that the City Guide was so well marked and easy to spot. As impossible as it seemed, he got lost. It was something that didn't happen, not to him at any rate, but here he was. It was a bit embarrassing. He'd gotten the coordinates when he left the motel. It was a habit so old he didn't even have to think about it. When in a strange place, he'd automatically try to retrieve coordinates from the local navigation system. If that failed, he'd then set his own grid and start recording his every move, as well as a visual input, so that he could always find the starting point, by backtracking if necessary.  
This time however, he received a set of numbers, and contented himself with that. Only when he tried to use the coordinates to return to the motel he discovered a small setback.  
He knew where he was. He knew where he wanted to go. But, not being familiar with the system by which the grid was organized, he had no idea how to connect the two.  
Fortunately, the City Guides were easy to find.  
Skyfire tapped the touch pad, and searched for the city grid system, blissfully unaware that by activating the machine with a small energy burst, he sent his energy signature in the net.  
After few minutes he found the information he was looking for. He also located the motel on the map and memorized the layout of its surroundings - just to be sure - and shut down the Guide.

The next events happened so fast, he barely had time to react.  
Three massive mechs approached him from different directions. They stopped few paces away, radiating a polite threat. "Officer Backlog of Vos Police Force," one of them introduced himself, simultaneously projecting a small hologram that held the same information. "I must ask what your designation is, sir."  
"It's Skyfire," Skyfire said, glancing at the pair of cops behind him. "Is something wro--"  
There was swift movement and a soft click, and suddenly he found himself cut off from his own subspace pockets and unable to raise the radio. He gaped at the set of cuffs magnetized to his wrists. Through the shocked haze, he barely heard the next words the police-bot said.  
"You're under arrest."

* * *

**A/N**: Once again, concrit and grammar advices are welcomed and deeply loved.  
And _any_ indication that you've read it will bring joy to my spark. (Doubly so if you liked it).


	4. Chapter 3: Art

**A/N: T**hank you for reviews, alerts, and hits. And most of all, thanks for your patience! ;) I hope the new chapter doesn't disappoint.

**Chapter 3****  
****Art**

-

-

* * *

_The second star to the right and straight on till four millions years ago..._

_The first thing that appeared in Megatron's vision were blinking alarmingly red lights of his own diagnostics. The second one was Optimus Prime, slumped nearby and staring at him dumbly through dimmed optics. Megatron returned the look, matching the blank expression. It took about a breem and several red lights turning green for him to comprehend the situation and scramble painfully to his feet. He aimed his cannon and shot, almost the same moment Optimus did. But, while the Autobot's rifle barked with a series of blasts, Megatron's cannon only made a disappointing whizzing sound. That was a drawback of having your primary weapon wired directly into your bodyshell - it would be cut off from power lines where the damage hit certain level. Megatron growled, refused to clutch at his freshly scorched side, and did the next logical thing. He tackled Prime.  
Few punches later he realized that, though he was loathe to admit, he was in no condition to fight. His diagnostics screamed at him about several important components and circuits crushed and shaken out of place. There was only one thing left to do.  
"Decepticons," he rasped, and looked around to see if there were any around. Yes, his troops were there, part of them still trying to stand upright. They seemed to have the same problems as he. "Retreat!" Megatron finished his traditional speech.  
"Where to?" an unmistakable voice whined. Ah. Valid point. He answered the question by grabbing his second in command and pushing him on the nearest door. It gave easily with a satisfying crunch, and Starscream was first to dash down the corridor it opened to.  
Shortly after they found their way outside, Megatron's radio beeped, and oddly happy voice of Astrotrain announced that he had them in visual range. Just a breem later they boarded the triplechanger and were carried away toward Nemesis, hovering peacefully on the orbit._

* * *

_The second of Mondern, three quarters into the first shift_

"That's it," Mirage said pushing himself away from the terminal. "I won't get anything else without logging in as a known user with paid account; I don't think we'd get anything useful in a public net anyway. There is a history department at the War Academy in Kaon; we could try our luck there."  
Wheeljack flashed his headfins in denial. "Let's first figure out a way home. This university here, what was the name?"

"Medical Engineering & General Science University, dubbed 'Triple H' for some reason," Mirage said, and disconnected a datapad from the console. "Here, I downloaded everything I thought might be useful." He tossed the pad to the engineer, but miscalculated slightly, and it bounced off of a Lamborghini pile.  
"Watch were you toss you scrap," Sideswipe said around a yawn, disentangling himself from his twin. This achieved, he looked around. "So, what's the plan?" he asked brightly.

The plan, it turned out, was to go and visit local science center, and ask for assistance in getting back home. Since the admittance was for stuff and students only, they decided that only a small group (Wheeljack, Perceptor, and Beachcomber for moral support) would try to talk their way in. The rest would just wait outside and keep out of trouble.

The suns were rising when they left the motel, leaving behind a datapad with a message for still absent Skyfire, and headed downtown.

They were nearing the Main Plaza, when Beachcomber stopped and, for the lack of better word, sniffed. "Is it just me, or is the air kind of... energetic?" he asked with a puzzled frown. The other's first reaction was to give him a did-you-loose-few-screws look, but then they felt it too. Perceptor immediately switched to a multispectrum vision.  
"Fascinating. There appears to be a suspension of energon particles in the atmosphere. The energon is of very low grade, but finely filtered. Whatever could be the source of such anomaly?"  
"Look ahead and up," Sunstreaker advised, his optics already glued to the sight. The others followed his lead. The structure was at least four levels high, and towered over the low buildings in the center of the plaza. The energon cascaded down its esthetically asymmetric components, some flowing smoothly down the sculpted tubes, and some splattering on angled plates, until it was nothing more than a opalescent mist, dancing in the light breeze.

"That would be 'the fountain at the Main Plaza'," Sideswipe guessed. Then he grinned broadly, and slung friendly arms over Wheeljack's and Perceptor's shoulders, drawing them in. "So, why don't you guys go ahead and chat with your fellow scientists, and we will just wait for you rrhight here?" he put so many exaggerated 'r's into 'right', it came out almost as a purr. Sunstreaker shot his brother a suspicious look.

_:'Why do I have a feeling it was a quote too?':_

_:'cause yr 1 paranoid quote hater':_ Sideswipe sent back, grinning like a Cheshire cat and waving goodbye to departing scientists. Then, aloud, "let's go explore a bit, shall we?"

They made all of ten steps into the plaza, when Mirage stopped dead. "This is Goldwing's Lounge," he murmured, staring in disbelieving awe at one of the buildings. "I was sure he'd died in the war."  
Pipes looked at him, a little lost. "Who?"  
Mirage was still too stunned to talk, so, after giving the building in question a once over, Sideswipe explained. "Goldwing. Disgustingly rich, snooty glitch. Before the war he owned the biggest net of most exclusive restaurants and lounges on the whole Cybertron. Looks like he's back in business." He then slapped Mirage's shoulder companionably. "Unfreeze, golden boy. I doubt you still have their membership card, so no point in staring," he said, and steered the reluctant spy away.

After several breems of navigating among cafeterias and entertainment centers, Sunstreaker picked a bench placed in the most scenic spot and sat down, declaring it a lunch break. Sideswipe took a hint, unsubspaced some energon cubes and distributed them among the present company. Sunstreaker sipped at his cube elegantly, letting his gaze wander around.  
He felt strangely at piece, which would probably shock all processing capacity out of most people who only knew Sunstreaker from the time of war.

It was a common belief that the golden twin was a fluid-thirsty warmonger, only happy in the heat of a battle, who would feel lost in a time of peace.  
Common believes could go and defrag themselves, as far as Sunstreaker was concerned.  
As he would say if anybody bothered to ask, just because he was good at something didn't mean he had to like it. Sure, he enjoyed a good fight just as much as the next bot (usually his brother). However, he preferred his brawls to be just short breaks from normal life. He despised being reduced to nothing more than a 24/7 fighting machine. And even more he despised war.

The trice blasted war, which tore him away from the life of his choosing, and threw him and his brother back into their 'designated' roles of fighters. Sunstreaker hated every single day of it. There were times were he could look around and say, 'hey, it's not so bad, can live with it'. Those were days he was civil, friendly almost. But then were other days, when everywhere he looked, he'd seen the painful echoes of what he'd lost, and the hate would swivel up in him, dark and suffocating, until he could no longer keep it in. He'd take it out on the battlefield, laying in the Decepticons in a blind rage. In the absence of Decepticons, he'd take it out on his fellow Autobots, and the walls of the brig, until his own plating cracked and he became too tired to remember the life he once had. The perfect life that he and Sideswipe had worked long and hard to get, only to have it swiped away in the stupid, stupid war.

And all of a sudden he found himself... here. In a place as surreal as a crack-induced dream, only less agitating. And so he allowed himself to simply kick back and pretend, even if just for a little while, that it was the old times again. He sprawled lazily on the bench, soaking in the views and sunrays like a very big, content cat. Absently, he noted that Hoist and Grapple wandered off to investigate why the heat-absorbing lamps didn't turn the blue sky gray like the one they've seen before. Not long after, Pipes too disappeared in a direction where some novelty shops had caught his optic earlier.

Afterwards, thinking back to this moment, they admitted that they shouldn't have split up like this, but the peaceful city lulled them into an unfounded sense of security, and it simply, well, happened. They probably wouldn't even notice another member of the group drifting away, if it weren't for Hound, who suddenly stirred and looked around. "Where's Mirage?"

There was a soft sigh from few meters away, and the air shimmered slightly.  
"I wanted to check if Goldwing's Lounge still has uplink terminals running for the use of customers. I imagine they would have a higher-clearance login than a cheap motel," a disembodied voice of Mirage said.  
"Not to mention you're pinning for all the luxury," Sideswipe piped in, but his voice was drown out in Hound's "Good idea. We'll wait for you."  
"It won't take long," Mirage promised, and then he... probably was gone. One could never tell, unless the ground was soft enough for footprints to appear. On the elegant paving of the Plaza not even dust betrayed the spy's movement.

For a moment Sideswipe amused himself trying to discern the path of Mirage's passing among the strolling mechs. Then his wandering gaze stopped at something that was very familiar and very out of place. So out of place, in fact, that he stared at it for half a breem before deciding that he wasn't seeing things. He lightly elbowed his brother to get attention.  
"Look," he said, gesturing toward four holocanvas sitting innocently in the middle of one of cafe's yards. Sunstreaker turned to look, blinked, and frowned. "Those are not holocanvas," he stated.  
Sideswipe tilted his head dubiously. "Look like canvas to me."  
"No one leaves something this expensive on a freaking market place where everyone can fiddle with it. Those are _not_ canvas." Sunstreaker said, glaring at the offending painting appliances like he wanted to incinerate them with his gaze alone. He was itching to go and try it, but if it turned out to be phony, he'd probably go into core meltdown from disappointment.

Sideswipe regarded his twin carefully, and sighed inwardly. Ah, brother's job is never easy... He opened their private link and started teasing, needling, prodding and baiting, until Sunstreaker jumped to his feet and marched toward the canvas just to prove a point.

OoOoO

Damn brothers, damn fake canvas and damn people getting in the way, the yellow warrior thought gloomily, stomping toward the... the dumb piece of junk, probably just standing there as a dubious piece of decoration, or possibly just to spite him and ruin his day. He stopped in front of the platform, glared at it challengingly, and lightly jumped up on it.

The platform went 'ping', the little lights on its edges lit, the mechanism hid under it whizzed... and a cloud of blackness rolled from Sunstreaker's form in all directions.

Back on the bench, Sideswipe smirked and tsk-ed. "Temper, bro."

Sunstreaker froze, less because it actually was a holocanvas, and more because he hadn't realized just how intensely he was broadcasting. But that was just a momentary lapse - a second later Sunstreaker got a grip of himself, and neatly folded his energy fields into himself. Then he uncertainly raised a hand, redirected power flow to long-time not used areas, and made a sweeping motion through the holographic blackness. Strings of golden light trailed his fingertips. For a moment he just looked at them in disbelieve, and then started smiling like an idiot.

:_'Hey, Sides, know what? They have holocanvas here_.':  
:_'U don't say? I thought for sure t'was a piece o'scrap rusting around. ;D It's any good_? ':  
Sunstreaker walked out of the black cloud just so his brother could see him tapping his chin thoughtfully.  
:_'Well, it seems adequate'_: he sent, making a dubious face. :'_Might even be called a decent piece of equipment_.':  
:'_But I bet it could use a decent test run_.':  
:'_You think?'_: The yellow twin didn't seem convinced.  
:'_Absolutely,'_: The red one nodded decisively. And then he grinned as Sunstreaker dropped any pretence at indifference, and started painting already.

OoOoO

He started simple - a half-scale figure of a random Cybertronian. A basic exercise, well below his abilities and standards, but good to refresh his skills after the long hiatus. Sunstreaker was alarmed with how badly some of the lines blurred, and how the colors escaped their intended place in the spectrum. After almost an hour of corrections modified with adjustments he took a step back and looked at the little bot critically. It ended up looking more like Chase in his exo-suit than a proper mech, but at least the colors and textures were right. The image's head was tilted slightly upward, as if it was looking at something, and Sunstreaker felt compelled to paint that something. Now, what could a human be looking at? He turned, and his gaze fell on the dark cloud still taking up a third of the canvas. The traces of gold glowed slightly within it. It reminded him of sun rays filtered through the leaves, and thus the idea was born. With few wide-spread burst of energy Sunstreaker cleared most of the blackness, and got to work.

OoOoO

Hound watched in wonder at a magnificent oak tree growing under Sunstreaker's hands.  
"I didn't know he could do that," he said in awe.  
"Of course not," Sideswipe muttered with a hint of bitterness. "One of the first bombs that fell in the war went straight through the middle of Sunstreaker's canvas. And after I worked my aft off to get it for him too. Hard to say which one of us was more pissed."  
There weren't many things that could be said to that, so Hound just nodded his understanding, and went back to watching Sunstreaker.

He wasn't the only observer. In a nearby café, a bot leaned forward in his seat, and then stood up and walked to the window to take a closer look. "Impossible," he murmured. And yet, the overall body type was right, the hue of yellow was right (although not as glossy as could be expected), and, most important of all, right was the way the bot moved across the holocanvas, making it sing under his hands. The observing mech shook his head. "Incredible," he murmured. He made a move to go and say his greeting, but stopped himself. It was a terribly bad taste to interrupt an artist at work. So instead he made his way toward the café's manager.

The manager, a slender mech whose pastel frame blended perfectly with the café's decor, eyed the approaching mech and put on a wide smile. On principle, he didn't like aristocrats, but this one was quite okay - not as uptight and snooty like the usual lot of them. Besides, the guy was a known patron of the Art Academy, and since the Fringe Café was AA's property, the manager was always careful to treat him with some extra honors.  
"Afternoon, sir. What can I do for you?"  
A polite nod. "Is the painting up for sale?"  
"Huh?" The caretaker looked out the window and raise optic ridges. "You want to buy a work in progress?" he asked.

"The artist is a..." the mech paused for a moment, searching for an adequate description. "...old acquaintance."  
The caretaker nodded and turned to the console hooked to the canvas controls. "Well, he didn't book it either way, I guess we'll have to wait until he's done?" He made it half a question, because, technically, if someone used the canvas without paying up front, the painting automatically became AA's property and could be sold at any time. It would be only courteous to give the guy a chance to claim his work for himself, but if the customer demanded... The customer didn't. Instead he walked back to the watch the artist, and of the two windows with the best view, he chose the one where the colors of the mural best complimented the blue of his paintjob.  
Like a true professional he was, the caretaker hid a smirk.

* * *

It wasn't until Sunstreaker started painting the sky that he noticed he had an audience. He splayed his hands above him and sent a gentle wave of energy to fill the whole upper edge of canvas with an even shade of blue, and somebody whistled appreciatively.  
"Wow, cool," somebody else said. Sunstreaker glanced to a group of bots leaning on the railings. They were all wearing small badges with two intertwined 'A's, written in a gray, square outlines. Since they didn't do anything beyond staring and commenting, Sunstreaker ignored them and went back to the sky. The shade was one that on Earth would be associated with white clouds, so he added them, and since he didn't have enough space to stuff in the realistic 3D representation, he went for the perspective illusion. In fact, this was even better. Every moron could make a realistic 3D image. Making a flat plane appear tree-dimensional was that much more challenging. As immersed as he was with replicating the play of light and shadow, he didn't miss the stir among his audience. One of the bots was delegated to trot to the other side of the canvas, and reported dutifully that yes, the puffy things looked puffy from other angles too. Sunstreaker didn't even realize that this silly little smile of his made a brake for freedom yet again.

* * *

_The second of Mondern, beginning of the third shift_

Golden hands moved smoothly, conjuring colors out of the thin air. One last line, one last patch, a little smudge of orange added on a mountain on the horizon behind the image-mech's back, one last look at the effect - and Sunstreaker stepped from the canvas. He eyed the unfamiliar layout of the control panel, scrolled through the command lines, and hazarded tapping 'end work'. The painting flickered lightly, and froze. No more corrections to it could be now made without some heavy hacking, and that's how he liked it. Once the painting was done, it was done.

* * *

"Well," the caretaker said straightening. "He's done, and he didn't claim it, so it's for the taking. I think five hundreds would be a fair price. The split goes as usual, seventy percent for the AA, fifteen for me and fifteen for the artist."  
The aristocrat eyed the painting one more time, and passed his credit card. "Five thousand, and make it twenty percent for the artist." He smiled lightly at the astonished look on the pastel mech's face. "Any less, and he'll take it as an insult," he explained.

The caretaker shook off the surprise and took the offered card. "Sir's wish is my command," he murmured, typing in new transaction settings. Then he sighed at the message the banking system sent him. "It will take a breem or two, sir. His account is only just being activated."

* * *

"How'd you made this texture?"

The question stopped Sunstreaker in mid-step, just as he started back toward Sideswipe and Hound. He turned to discover that, while most of his (loving) audience dissipated after dropping a few compliments, one bot remained. And not only remained - he climbed in the middle of the painting, and was ogling the tree bark with his nose almost dipping in it. Sunstreaker recognized him as the one who circled the canvas while he was painting the clouds. The kid's appearance wasn't what one would normally associate with an artist - a large, graceless, bulky frame, clearly a mining vehicle of some kind.  
The corners of Sunstreaker's mouth twitched, uncertain whether they should form a smile or a scowl. After a brief argument, they settled for a neutral expression.  
"Figure it out for yourself," he said with a gesture toward the other canvas, his tone bordering on dismissing.

Shadowlane sighed inwardly. He'd noticed the taxing look the golden painter gave his frame, and not for the first time he wondered if he should just change his alt mode. People didn't seem to take excavators seriously. But, aside from the fact he couldn't really afford a reformat, he _liked_ having a useful alt mode. Those fancy racers of his classmates couldn't do anything besides looking pretty, and that wouldn't cut it for him. Ah, well. He stepped on the other canvas, and started experimenting, every once in a while stealing a peek at the green construct in the other's painting.

Sunstreaker watched the young bot critically for a moment. Then he simply watched for a moment longer. Finally, he spoke.  
"Good thinking, but not like that." He offered his hand, palm up. After a moment of surprised silence, the young bot eagerly stretched his hand over Sunstreaker's... and yanked back immediately, shaking it violently. Sunstreaker didn't waver, except for his optic ridge, which traveled upwards. The young bot gave him a sheepish and apologetic look.

"Umm... tickles," he explained weakly, and tried again. He bit his lip and frowned in concentration, trying to ignore the prickling and analyze the wild energy flares shooting from the golden hand. How on Cybertron was he supposed to do that? He started manipulating his own field, until his unexpected teacher nodded.  
"You got the hang of it, now try it."  
Hesitantly, Shadowlane dragged his hand through the canvas, and felt like melting from embarrassment when instead of a graceful greenish column, a shapeless blob of rich violet appeared.  
Sunstreaker eyed it calmly. "The texture looks right," he commented, and the young bot almost sagged in relief. "Now, gently change the frequency --gently!-- until you get the color you want."  
Shadowlane nodded vigorously.

OoOoO

Sitting on a Plaza bench, under the light of descending double suns, sipping warm energon and watching his brother tutoring some kid on the art of field-painting, Sideswipe came to the only logical conclusion.  
"We have died," he said to the world in general. "We have died and went to Heaven."  
Hound tilted his head. "Interesting thought. I didn't know you were familiar with human religious concepts?"  
Sideswipe shrugged and waved his hand. "Sunstreaker once asked Chip what that pendant he wore was, and we got a lengthy explanation. A lot of mambo-jambo if you ask me, but I liked the idea of eternal happiness in the afterlife. Beats 'being one' with a bunch of dead guys."  
Hound shook his head at the way the warrior trivialized two religions in one breath. He was about to comment, but he stopped mid word, staring into the crowd with a confusion on his face.  
Sideswipe looked at him, then followed his gaze to a blue mech making his way toward Sunstreaker, and frowned at the confusing, unfamiliar familiarity. It took him a moment to realize that the mech simply sported a variation of the altmode he'd had when they first met, instead of the one that Sideswipe last seen him with.  
"And he said he would never go back to this old model," he sneered automatically, and then the reality caught up with him. "How did HE get here?"

OoOoO

It took Sunstreaker a second or two to realize that someone had called his name. He turned, easily spotting approaching, familiar figure. And, because his fingers still itched with the canvas' static, and his thoughts were wandering way back in the timeline, he answered exactly as he would have all those vorns ago.  
"Hey there, Tracks. How's your day?"  
The blue bot nodded politely. "Very good thank you. How's yours?"  
"Better than I've had in centuries," Sunstreaker replied truthfully, and then the reality caught up with him. He was talking to Tracks. Tracks! In a city of several millions mechs, he just happened to run into one of the Autobot crew. It would surely count as the best strike of luck this side of the galaxy. Or worst - all depending on how exactly Tracks came to be here, free and carefree in the middle of Decepticon city. This situation called for cunning and diplomacy. Sunstreaker smiled one of his 'confuse the enemy' smiles, and forcibly stopped himself from doing something unwise, like opening his mouth and saying something entirely wrong. Instead he glanced toward the table Sideswipe and Hound were occupying. With emphasis on 'were'. Slag it. Fortunately for him, Tracks took it on himself to talk. "I must say I'm rather surprise to see you, I was convinced you were dead."  
"Yeah? Whatever made you think that?" Sunstreaker asked a little absently, scanning the place for his brother. _:'Sides, where the frell are you?':_  
"Well," Tracks reset his vocalizer, "apart from the obvious, I have a sculpture Slog made out of your body-shell in my gallery. It's usually hard to be more dead than that."  
A second passed. Then, very slowly, Sunstreaker turned to look directly at Tracks. "You _what_?"

Realizing that the subject was a bit awkward, Tracks made an apologetic face. "I thought it only fitting, considering I have most of your works in my possession." He tactfully didn't mention that he was the second owner of the sculpture in question, and he only managed to buy it after the original owners got bored of abusing it in not very inventive, but vengeful ways. Apparently, Sunstreaker had made a very bad impression on them.

"Hey, Tracks, that you?" a cheerful voice asked nearby. To his credit, Tracks only winced a little, and covered it with a small smile almost immediately. He turned to greet the new comer. "Good afternoon, Sideswipe," he said in a slightly strained tone of a person much too polite to say 'oh not YOU again.'

Sideswipe picked up on the tone and, as usual, found it amusing, so he gave his trademark, head-splitting grin. Behind his back, Hound smiled at the blue bot.  
"Nice to see you again, Tracks."

A slight confusion flitted across the crimson face.  
"I beg your pardon. I don't believe we've ever met?" The question mark at the end of the sentence was slightly apologetic, implying the unspoken 'I'm sorry if I didn't bother to remember you'.  
A short silence followed.  
"You don't remember Hound?" Sideswipe asked incredulously.  
"I can't say I do. Could you refresh my memory?"  
Sunstreaker almost growled, seeing a slightly hurt look on the scouts face, but he kept quiet.  
:'_Something's wrong here, bro. He said I'm supposed to be dead earlier. Something about my corpse_': he texted

"Shame on you, Tracks. It hadn't been _that_ long." Sideswipe teased lightly, at the same time texting back. :'_Reprogram? Memory wipe?_':  
:'_Hell if I know. He acts prett-- nor--l pfrttt --what t--frag?_':

The twins looked at each other in alarm, barely hearing Tracks startled inquiry if something was wrong. Their internal link was based on a modified self-diagnostic communications, using the nearly identical settings of their systems. As long as both of them were on-line, it was near impossible to block it. And yet, someone managed to litter it with a healthy dose of static, blurring the normally clear letters.  
"Someone's jamming our communication," Sideswipe hissed, more as a warning for Hound than an answer for Tracks.

The blue bot raised optic ridges, tried his own radio, and found it full of familiar white noise. "It's just a police sweep," he explained to Sunstreaker. Those were usually taking newcomers by surprise. "Nothing to worry about." Then he realized there was Sideswipe involved. "Unless, of course, your brother was dabbling in something not entirely legal recently," he added. It was meant as a jest, but his smile faltered under the death-glare he received from both twins. And behind their back, he saw several officers clearly heading their way.

"I'll... be over there," Tracks mumbled, discretely backing away. He had no desire to get mixed up in any shady dealings on behalf of a _very_ old acquaintanceship.

The police-bots neared the three Autobots' location, and all hopes of them looking for someone else where blown out the window the moment one of them spotted their insignias. His optics brightened, and almost immediately the rest of the cops changed direction and they closed in on them. From there, it all went almost too fast to follow. It was Hound who slipped up and started a snowball effect. He instinctively tried to surround the three of them with a hologram to allow them to slip away quietly. Only, the hologram failed - instead of the usual, perfect illusion, it conjured a random splash of colors, which instantly singled Hound out and got him cuffed faster than he could blink. To which, of course, Sideswipe reacted with reaching for his gun. Only, the subspace access was scrambled as well, and instead of jumping smoothly into his waiting hand, the gun clattered to the ground a foot away, which got Sideswipe shot with a concussion gun _and_ handcuffed before he could process what just happened. To which, of course, Sunstreaker reacted.

When the dust settled, five officers lay on the ground groaning in various degrees of pain. The sixth one, youngest and least experienced of them, whose only task had been to scan the crowd for the suspects, was gaping with the wide optics at the mass of golden mech sprawled on the ground, still aiming a concussion blaster with shaking hands.

There was a sound of shuttle landing delicately behind him, and someone patted his arm.  
"Good work lad."  
The youngster lowered the gun and looked at the freshly arrived backup with slightly unfocused gaze of a person who'd been sure he was going to die, and still wasn't one hundred percent certain that he didn't.  
"Sir, three of the suspects approached and detained, sir," he reported weakly, and allowed himself to be steered toward the shuttle. He managed not to faint until he was safely sat inside.

OoOoO

Hiding behind holocanvas which still held the beautiful image Sunstreaker had conjured, Tracks watched as the police shuttle took off, taking the artist and his brother away. The white noise in his radio ceased, ended with the customary 'we apologize for inconvenience'. And just like that, it was over. Unless he counted the snippets of conversation he could make out in the background, going on the lines of 'did you SEE that?', there was no trace that anything out of ordinary happened. Drawing in a long breath, Tracks sat on the nearest convenient surface, and absently checked his chronometer. Not even a breem since the twins first mentioned the radio static. In a small part of his CPU, the one which wasn't still mulling over the scene he'd just witnessed, Tracks felt a ping of patriotic pride.  
Not for nothing were the Vossian Police considered one of most efficient forces on entire Cybertron.

End of chapter 3

* * *


	5. Chapter 4: Low life

**A/N:** On the pronunciation - think of Captain Sparrow. Hear him say 'Savvy'. Replace S with K. Now you know how to say Cavvy's name. :)

**Chapter 4****  
****Low life**

* * *

_**The second star to the right and straight on till four millions years ago...**_

_Energon was undoubtedly the most efficient form of energy in the universe, highly concentrated and relatively stable. Unfortunately, natural deposits were hard to come by, and its complex, crystalline structure was impossible to artificially replicate. Or so it was believed. Shockwave, the ever humble and underestimated genius in the field of physics had his own theory, which he had unwisely shared with another mech, who was about to take credit for it.  
The presentation of gathering first artificial energon into cubes went smoothly, if one didn't count snappish barbs coming from Starscream's direction. The Air Commander though it highly suspicious that the mech who's only talents were eavesdropping and building micro-mechs with weird root modes would accomplish such a feat. His snide comments finally reached a critical level and triggered a reaction.  
"You are trying my patience, Starscream!" Megatron rasped, gesturing with his cannon threateningly.  
Starscream wisely averted his gaze. "I was merely expressing my concern, mighty leader," he assured insincerely. Megatron accepted the submission at face value and returned his attention and prize to patiently waiting Soundwave. Starscream barely restrained the urge to hiss static at both of them. It was getting increasingly difficult to keep his vocalizer on a leash. He'd g__ot to his current position by carefully avoiding voicing too much of his true opinions, but recently he nearly slipped up several times. He blamed it on the after-crash stasis. He'd always reacted badly to stasis. And there was of course the matter of Megatron's incapability to make away with the Autobots, hiding in their volcano like a pack of retro-rats. Hopefully, with the invention provided by miraculously-brilliant-eavesdropper, Megatron would finally manage to finish the millennia long conflict and get them back to Cybertron; up there they wouldn't have to interact on daily basis, and life would go back to normal._

* * *

_The second of Mondern, nearing the end __of the first shift_

Pipes spent a good hour exploring little novelty shops scattered across the plaza, sating his gaze with thousands of essentially useless but not less fascinating for it knick-knacks from, as the sellers assured, most exotic worlds. He would very well spend at it the next two shifts, if it wasn't for an argument he overheard. A customer accused the shopkeeper that most of his goods had been dug up on the nearby scrapyard, to which the accused retorted that even if that were the case, most of the scrap rusting out there _was_ of alien origin.  
Since he couldn't afford to buy anything, and he'd hate to leave this place without some souvenir, Pipes decided to stray even further from the rest. He waited for the argument to end, asked the shopkeeper for directions, and set off toward the promised land.

* * *

"Officer Surescore of Vos Police Force. May I have a moment of your time?"  
The spacebridge operator took a moment to verify that the call had indeed come from security channel, and straightened in his chair.  
"Off course, officer. How can I help the police?"  
"A mech with following energy signature arrived through your station at 24,91 breems on the First of Mondern." A little beep announced a transmission of energy pattern. "I require all details concerning his journey, arrival and company if applicable. I also wish to know why there was one and a half shift delay in forwarding the information on him into the system."

* * *

_The second of Mondern, beginning of the __second shift_

The scrapyard was located on the very outskirts of the city. It obviously had been made by constructing a wide platform on rooftops of several comparatively short buildings (just ten levels - no more than twelve hundred meters) and building a level-high wall around it. A very large litter-box, which was gradually filled with litter, until the present state was reached, when some of the larger heaps threatened to crawl over the wall onto adjoining walkway.  
However, to Pipes' great disappointment, the area was fenced off. The 'AUTHORIZED PERSONEL ONLY' plaques were placed on the fence every hundred meters, and in a nearby gate a guard surveyed the area with a bored look. Slouching his shoulders slightly, Pipes dragged along the fence, longingly eyeing a shipwreck sticking out of less identifiable wreckage. He thought he recognized the design - that little kickback of Devcon piloted something similar during his single visit on Earth.

A startled yelp drew Pipes attention. There was a mech under the ship, and whatever he'd been doing must have ruptured a fuel or waste tank, because a stream of old, stale fuel, liberally mixed with dirty grease was spouting on his head. The unfortunate mech flailed, trying in vain to get the liquid off his face and stop the leak, but only succeeded in slipping on the suddenly unsteady floor. With another startled yelp, he tumbled into one of many depressions in the scrap-yard's surface. And the fuel kept flowing.

Scaling the fence and sliding down the slope didn't take Pipes even twenty seconds.  
"Hey, hey, stop trashing like that," he called, getting to his hand and knees at the edge of the hole. "You're just digging yourself in deeper!"  
The greasy fuel quickly soaked in between loose pieces of junk that formed the floor, giving it a quality quite similar to Earth's quick sands. The mech in the pit had already sunk up to his knees. He raised his head at the sound of Pipes voice, his half-blinded optical band bending slightly in an expression of hopeful dismay.  
"Hold still for a moment," Pipes ordered, looking around quickly. He then rotated pipes mounted on his forearms, so that they were sticking out over his elbows rather than his hands, and lied down flat on his chest. With one hand he grasped tightly the nearest thing that looked unmovable, and reached the other toward the trapped mech. "Here, take my hand."

It was very messy and exhausting breem. The fuel victim was over trice Pipes's size, the grease in the fuel made every grasp unsteady, and the loose rubble kept shifting under them. When they finally crawled away from the pit, they were both identical shade of sickly brownish black. This was probably why the guard who came to investigate an alert from the fence didn't notice that Pipes was present.

The exchange was pretty much one-sided.  
"Hey, wha' do ya think yer doin'--?" The guard huffed, all righteous anger at having to leave his cozy post. Then he took a good look at the soaked mech, and calmed down. "Oh, it's you." He turned to call out to his following friend "False alarm, i's jus' 'Cavvy!", turned on his heel and marched away.

Pipes snickered and looked up at the bot he rescued. "Cavvy, right? I'm Pipes." He extended his hand, and, misunderstanding the gesture, Cavvy quickly scrambled to his feet to help him up.  
"Hi Pipes, thank you. I'm sorry, I got you all dirty," he fussed, trying to brush some of the crust off Autobot's frame.  
"Hey, don't worry about it," Pipes laughed, carelessly brushing the worst of crust off his arms and leaving the rest alone. It wouldn't come off without a good solvent anyway. "I usually look worse after a patrol."

He looked curiously at the shipwreck looming above them. "What where you doing to get yourself in this fix, anyway?" he asked of the bigger mech.  
Cavvy brightened like a tree on Christmas Eve, and proceeded to explain that one of his teammates was recently working on designing a new fuel flow system, and brought in any type of engine he could find to compare efficiency of different models. So when he saw relatively undamaged ship, he thought he might retrieve the engine for him.

"I was trying to get to the back clamps when the fuel burst out. I don't know where it came from," he added ruefully. "I'm sure I wasn't anywhere near any tanks." He turned to scan the area of the ship where the remaining trickle of fuel dripped around a ragged edge.  
An unusual movement caught Pipes optic. He took a closer look at his new friend. He was a big mech, sporting thick curved plates that looked like they formed some tool in altmode. What drew Pipes' attention, however, were three curious, multi-joint jibes protruding from his lower back, looking very much like a triple tail. Their last segments hovered horizontally about three inches above the ground, swinging this way and that.

The moment Cavvy notices Pipes' gaze, he took an instinctive step back, and the 'tails' jerked up and curled against his back.  
Surprised by the reaction, Pipes made an apologetic face. "Um, sorry, didn't mean to stare."  
The bigger mech dipped his head sheepishly. "No, no, sorry, it's not that, it's just they are sensitive sensors, and people keep stepping on them."

Pipes could understand why. Cavvy was a big mech, but if he ever met, say, Sideswipe or Cliffjumper, his shy demeanor would immediately earn him a little 'kick me' plaque on his back. And no matter where you were, there'd always be a jerk or two around who wouldn't mind actually following the instruction. Pipes had a very firm opinion on this kind of mechs. It instantly made him feel (even more) sympathetic toward the mech.

"I'll watch were I put my feet," he promised. He then gestured to the hole in the ship's hull. "Want some help? I'm small, I'll have less trouble with reaching the back clamps," he offered. "You'd have to give me a boost up, though," he added as an afterthought, measuring the height with his gaze.  
Cavvy brightened again.

* * *

The yellow-opticed bridge operator was approached while (with much grumbling and griping) he was settling his debts at the racing track, and was asked to follow the officers to the nearest police station to 'help with an investigation'.

"Yeah, only one incoming on this shift," he said, flicking an uncertain gaze between the three officers. "A bunch of good-willers, they almost overloaded the station with that jump."  
"What gave you the impression they were Children of Space?" one of the officers asked, not raising his head from the data pad in his hand.

"The red faces, duh!" the operator sniffed, making small circle over his chestplate to indicate that he meant badging, not actual faces. "And they all had blue optics, too. Fanatics."  
The cop this time spared him a glance, and the operator almost melted under the navy-blue stare.  
"No offence meant, sir," he managed. "And it wasn't proper blue like yours, sir. Kinda lightish shade. I know I thought it was weird, I thought they weren't making this hue anymore."  
"Anything else out of ordinary?"  
"Um... They were filthy, dripped some organic bits on my floor, took me half a shift to clean it."

"Little over three breems, according to your coworker," the blue-opticed cop corrected coldly.

"Why isn't the place of origin booked in the logs?" the other police-bot asked.  
"Oh, I never got it. The coordinates were all scrambled. You know how off-worlders are, they jumped from homemade bridge that almost blew in their faces."  
"I see. Did you ask what planet were they from? Where they checked in? If they had authorization?"

"...Um..." The operator slowly started overheating.  
"I believe there's a procedure for such occurrences?"

"Uh..." The Primus-damned Book of Regulations would certainly come in handy right about now. He started regretting he never actually bothered to read it. "Look, I'm just a bridge operator! I greet new people or send them off and that's it, it's none of my business or responsibility where they are coming from!"  
"Your contract, terms of service and your employer's policy say otherwise," the thus far silent, tall police-bot said, and stood. "You will be detained until this case is fully explained. From now on until further notice all your private comms will be monitored. Officer Bywheel will record your further testimonies." He nodded to his colleague, and they left, leaving the operator alone with the blue-opticed cop, who spared a moment to give him an evil glare.

"Um... Really meant no offense sir, I mean, it's a fine idea behind the movemen--"  
"I've had blue optics long before some brat thought it was a good idea to sit on his aft and preach intergalactic peace, so mute it."  
"Yes sir."

"And write down everything that happened on that shift - from supernovas to flickering lights,_ everything_ - nanoklik by nanoklik."  
"Um... Yes sir."

OoOoO

In the corridor outside the room where the operator was slowly starting to comprehend the importance of not sleeping at work, the tall officer was radioing instructions to his subordinates.

"Check cameras' logs from outer doors nearest to washrack. Look for and secure any leftovers of organic origin in the office, corridor and the washrack. Check the elements in the recycler in the office. Bring someone from subspace department to try and trace the origin of the jump. Ask for sightings of anyone of the group on security channel. Check numbers of credit cards they got and monitor their accounts for any activity. Send the detainment warrant with their signatures and names on both security and local government channel. I want them brought in for questioning before Kaon lays their hands on them."

"Aren't you going a bit over the top?" the cop next to him asked, passing him an energon cube.  
"Maybe - thanks - maybe, but like the Pit I'll have some Kaon high-upper telling me later I overlooked anything. It's insulting enough they outrank us in the global hierarchy."  
"Good gracious, don't start with _that_ again..."

* * *

_The second of Mondern, one f__ifth into the second shift_

"...and if I leave even the smallest thing in the shop or common room, he starts cleaning the area and throws my things away, saying it's all scrap," Cavvy finished tale of his pedantic co-worker. Squeezed in between engine casing and the hull and fighting with a stubborn bolt, Pipes laughed good naturedly.  
"Oh bot, I feel your pain. I get the same with my collection. I usually have to keep everything in storage boxes and hope my roomy for the century doesn't decide he needs the space for something else."

Cavvy wagged his 'tails', glad to have some understanding. "What do you collect?" He asked curiously, carefully tugging and pushing at the engine to give Pipes more room to maneuver.  
"...Hard to tell, actually. Small things, like... have you ever been on an organic planet?"  
"Once. We hated it," Cavvy replied without thinking, and almost immediately he shrunk, while his optic band widened. "I mean, most of my team hated it, it was bearable, I mean, could be nice on a good day..." he amended hastily, anxiety in his voice betraying how much he was worried he'd insulted his new friend.

"Hey, it's fine," Pipe's laughed. "They were days I couldn't stand it too. But, you see, organics - sentient ones I mean - they do such neat little things. Like... clockwork toys, for example; they have some small entertainment value, their offspring would use for so brief period it's almost like a blink, and it has some dozens of separate parts, all fitting and working perfectly. Or clippers, designed specifically for some small part of their bodies - it isn't really useful, and I don't think many humans really used them, but there was still someone who sat down and thought it up, and someone else took his design, and materials procured by yet another someone, and then hired people to make it and it's so... I don't know, important, somehow," Pipes finished thoughtfully. He looked down to see Cavvy nodding enthusiastically. And it wasn't nodding of someone just being polite, but nodding of someone who he actually got it.  
Pipes grinned and, for the sake of perfect honesty added "And sometimes they're just too nifty to resist."

Cavvy gave a delighted laugh. "That's what I keep telling the guys," he said, and then his optic band brightened with a new idea. "The Alteenians scrapped here one of their orbital stations few days ago. They always leave a lot of stuff aboard. We could check it out later. I mean, if you have time?"

Pipes had no idea what Alteenians were, but exploring a scraped orbital station sounded like fun, and it wasn't like he'd have to report on patrol or monitor duty anytime soon.  
"Sure, that would be great," he smiled, then tapped the engine he was leaning on. "We're almost done here. Can you make me a little more room?"

Nodding with even more verve, Cavvy applied more pressure on the metal under his hands. Pipes slid in a bit further, feeling around in the darkness. It was a little disconcerting not to know the precise layout of his immediate surroundings, but it couldn't be helped - for some reason all his (and Cavvy's as well) scans of the engine area were blurred.  
His wandering fingers found a slippery edge where there should be a solid metal of engine chamber.

"Hey, I think I found what dropped all that fuel on you," Pipes called, feeling around the edge. He tried to move closer, slipped, and fell heavily. He felt his foot connecting with the wall, and breaking right through it. And then a wave of disgusting, greasy liquid hit Pipes and flushed him right out of the ship. He landed on top of Cavvy, who yelped and sat down heavily from the impact.

Then there was an ominous creaking of strained metal, and the engine, stripped of most of clamps and devoid of the big mech's support, fell out of its casing. The remaining few clamps gave and, with a deafening clang, the engine thumped to the ground right next to them. For a few seconds both mechs gaped at it. Then they looked at their freshly re-grimed frames, at each other, and they started laughing.

"Okay, I guess this ship just doesn't like us," Pipes chortled, scrambling to his feet. He looked up at the dripping hole, and risked saying "I think that was the last of it," when the actual last of it landed on his upturned face.

During long vorns of fighting, Pipes gained a whole range of useful reflexes. However, protecting his face from basically harmless liquids was _not _one of them. He didn't do as much as turning his head away, and was very surprised to suddenly find himself bent over and choking on the repulsive stuff. He realized the reason a moment later, and his desperate coughs intertwined with laughter at his own oversight.  
"My mask," Pipes managed to wheeze after a moment, leaning heavily on Cavvy's arm. "I forgot I'm not wearing it." He snickered again, and coughed out a lump of muck. "Yuck."

"Wait, I think I had something somewhere..." Cavvy rummaged hastily in his sub-pockets, dropping several tiny items until he fished out a five-pack of coolant bottles. Pipes accepted one gratefully, and gurgled the clean liquid. If nothing else, it removed the awful taste from his intakes.

The day was, as usual, hot, and heat absorbers scattered over the scrapyard were of low quality, so after making sure his small friend was going to be fine, Cavvy picked a bottle for himself as well. He took several swings, and spilled the rest of liquid on his frame.

It was a good idea, Pipes decided, and followed suit. He sighed contently and shut off his optics for a moment, letting himself revel in how nice the coolant felt on his dirty, overheated metal. Then he laughed softly, just because he felt like it, and because it was such a nice day, and there wouldn't be any Decepticons' attacks to spoil it.  
Cavvy laughed too, just because Pipes did, and for a moment they just stood there, snickering for no apparent reason.

Finally Pipes activated his optics and raised his head to look at Cavvy. And he froze.

The coolant the bigger bot had spilled on himself meshed with some of the grime coating him. Cavvy was absently wiping off some of it, and tough it didn't really improve his appearance, it removed enough of the dirt for his own bright colors to shine through in places. And with the colors, something else became visible too.

"Is something wrong?" Cavvy asked worriedly, noticing the smaller mech's sudden silence and changed expression. He followed Pipes' gaze to his own chestplate, and the purple symbol emblazoned on it.  
A dismayed 'oh' escaped him. He hunched and curled his tails miserably, and he broke into frantic explanation that they weren't with military or anything; not in the government or even anyone important. It was just that they used to be in the ranks, and now they were working directly for the government, so they never changed the color but it meant nothing really...  
And all the while his optic band bore desperately into Pipes' face, silently pleading: _Don't leave because of that!_

It was more that expression than anything else that helped Pipes regain his composure. There was no war here, he reminded himself with some effort. The purple foxface was just another symbol; it didn't announce an enemy anymore. Someone not too popular, perhaps, but not an enemy.

"Hey, easy, it's fine," he said, with a slightly strained smile, which did little to reassure his distressed companion. "It just... surprised me, I guess. I didn't expect a..." he grasped for the expression he heard yesterday, "...a high-up in a scrap yard." He laughed half-heartedly, completely failing at dispersing the awkwardness hanging in the air. Not knowing what else to do, he moved to inspect the engine and poked a bubble of rust on the far side.

The bubble gave a high-pitched squeak of protest, and Pipes jumped and stared with wide optics. "What the-- Wait a minute!" Shoving all worries aside, Pipes poked the bubble again, and watched it shy away.

"Look at that!" he called, and rolled the engine to better expose his find. "Rust leeches! _That's_ what's been messing up our scans!"

The small, rust-colored parasites were a major pain in the aft of every space-ship maintenance crew. Not only were they easily overlooked in a visual checkup, oh no. They also gave out a weak magnetic field - too weak to register as an anomaly on a scanner, but strong enough to alter the readings, hiding the damage caused by their presence. Oftentimes they were discovered only after the ship was flooded from a pipe they ate through.

"Pests!" Cavvy leaned over the engine and poked one as well. "They must have pierced all the piping in the hold above engine room." He peeled one leech off and squashed it with disgust. "And look how many of them! It will take half a shift to get them all," he fretted.

Pipes grinned. "Nah, don't worry. I've got it covered." He rotated his pipes back in place, and aimed at the leech-infested metal. "Um, step back a little," he warned, and when Cavvy complied, he shrouded the parasites with a cloud of his trademark corrosive gas.  
An acrid smoke rose, high-pitched screeches filled the air, and the ground was pelted with shrunk, burned bodies.  
Acting with oftentimes practices speed, Pipes produced a can of anti-corrosant from sub-pocket, and sprayed the engine with a thin layer of greenish foam. It came in reaction with acidic gas, neutralizing it quickly, and evaporated almost as fast.

"There. Good as new."  
Cavvy was in awe. "That's so _neat!_ What kind of gas is that?"  
"Ah, that's nothing," Pipes demurred modestly. "It's some custom mix a friend designed for me. It comes in handy sometimes. Except for when my tubing ruptures and it gets in my wiring." He shuddered at mere memory of such occurrence. "It burns like you wouldn't believe."

Cavvy made a concerned noise, and immediately promised to talk with a friend of his, who was a brilliant chemist, and would surely come up with some protective internal coating.  
"That'd be great," Pipes agreed. He didn't think anyone could come up with a suitable formula if even Perceptor couldn't, but it couldn't hurt to give it a try. "So," he said and patted the engine, "where do we take it?"

* * *

"No good," the police-bot announced to his friend/superior. "We'll get nothing from the office. No dirt left - a maintenance crew went through there at the end of the third shift and they _didn't_ slack on the job. In the recycler there were some traces of silicon and carbon, so not much help there. The sub-department asks if we're making fun of them, this jump is 'untraceable and undoable'. We do have visual from the cameras, so at least we know how they look like, I already sent out the descriptions." He passed data pad with slightly blurred still frames.

"Few sightings from the patrols, here, here and here." He lit three lights on the holomap to illustrate.

"One of patrolers broke up a starting fight - some war veteran didn't take kindly to good-willers symbol - here. And then one of the suspects used a City Guide - here. And that's it. Poof. They're gone. Not a peep from them until the main suspect was arrested - here."

"Using a City Guide as well, right?"  
"Right. And before you ask, we don't know what he was looking for. It didn't seem important at the time, and it's a busy sector. Before we were sent to retrieve the information several other people used it and the records were completely overwritten."  
"Pity. But what we do know is we are looking for a group of ten mech; strangers to the city, presumably with no currency, and presumably tired. So check all abandoned buildings, known hideouts and motels on the two-- three topmost levels in about three grid radius from the point where the trail ends."  
"Yes sir."

* * *

_The second of Mondern, one forth into the __second shift_

A small watchtower (which was in fact a top of a tall but buried watchtower) stuck out of one of garbage hills. A very bored guard sat sprawled in a chair placed in its shadow, and watched a monitor of a small movement detector.  
"Movement at 2-4-78 point 2-3-5," he drawled with that universal '_I'm so bored my CPU is stalling_' tone of voice.

The second guard, sitting at the top of the tower turned and found indicated spot with the sights of an electric rifle. "Got it, aaaand..." - he pulled a trigger, and something squeaked in the distance - "Got it! What's the score?"

"Two hundred eleven since our shift started. This city has more retro-rats than inhabitants, I tell you."  
The gunner laughed. "Well, that's what you get from letting students in the city. There's a semestral break at Mekanikos, and students are designing the pests just to keep themselves occupied."

"You don't say," the watcher murmured, and tilted his head over the backrest to look up. "And you know this how?"  
"Been there, done that, got caught and kicked out for it," was the cheerful reply.

The watcher scowled at the sky. "Don't talk to me. Okay? Just don't talk to me."

The gunner laughed knowingly. "So by how much you failed the exam this time?"  
"Ten points. TEN freaking _points_."  
"Aww, don't worry, you're improving. Just three more decades and you'll get there."  
"'Jack, I'll kill you. All right? I'm gonna kill you."  
"Umm... all right."  
There was a brief silence.  
"Any time today?" the gunner asked encouragingly.  
"Oh, shut up." The watcher rolled his head to look at the monitor. "Movement right under your nose."  
"Wha--?" The gunner leaned over the banister to look down, and blinked at the sight of two dirty mechs. "Hoooly Primussss, Cavvy, what did you do to yourself? This time?"

Sounding a little apologetic, Cavvy explained the leeches/fuel-leak correlation which led to his current disheveled state.  
The gunner shuddered. "Bleh, leeches, yuck! Mech, you're devoted. Me? I'd rather sit up here and shoot things. Oy, down there!" He turned to his colleague and chucked a small piece of junk at his head. "Wake up!"  
The watcher reluctantly lit his optics. "What?"

"You heard the mech?"

"Yeah? So?"

"So, mark the area as pest and fire hazard! Moron. Do you pay so much attention on your tests too?"

"I hate you," the watcher murmured sullenly, and started typing new information in the scrapyard system.

"Are they brothers?" Pipes inquired with a snicker, helping Cavvy deposit the engine in a scarce shadow.  
"Um... I don't think so. Why?"  
"Well, I know this pair of twins, you see, and they sound just like those two most of the time."

"Twins? Really?" Cavvy asked with interest as they set out in the direction of Alteenians' station. "What are they like?"

They walked away, the smaller mech gesticulating to his tale, the bigger one's tails swishing happily over the ground.

The pair of guards watched them go for a moment. Then the gunner looked down at the watcher.

"So, _are _we brothers?"  
"If we were, I'd shoot myself. Movement at 6-5-75 point 1-3-7."

* * *

"Hey boss, want some bad news?"

"Shoot."

"The CS from the Glares recognized our marry band. They helped him fix some shades and rented a room in the seediest motel I've ever seen. They weren't there anymore when we visited, but they left this." The cop held 'this' up. "Our tech says it's surprisingly well maintained piece of ancient trash. There's some garbage that could be a kind of message on it; I already gave it to the coders to chew on, but I won't be surprised if they choke on it, it's really weird. And the other thing..."

"Yes?"

"They spent some time digging through the net. Guess what they were looking for?"  
"Maps?"  
"Bravo. Among other things, but it's the maps I meant. And guess what they were looking for on the maps?"  
"Go on, I can see you're all loaded to tell me."  
"Well, it's funny actually, I though that one of the names looked familiar when I first saw the list, but I only got it after I saw where they wanted to go..." the police bot leaned in and tapped the name in question. "Remember the guy?"  
The ranking cop frowned thoughtfully, and his subordinate smiled grimly.  
"It might help your memory chips if I tell you that they plotted a course that would take them from that seedy little motel, through the downtown, through the Plaza, and right into... tadadam... Triple H."  
The ranking cop thumped the data pad on the table.  
"Hot _damn_."  
"Yep."

They exchanged looks.

"All right, change of plans. Any further clues - and the suspects IF we can find them - are to be sent straight to Kaon. If Wingspan wants to cross 3H, he can rusty well do it on his own, I'm not going to."  
"For you've made that mistake once already."  
"Shut up."

* * *

_The second of Mondern, four fifth into the __second shift_

With sub-pockets weighted with looted goods and spirits lifted up to the sky, Pipes and Cavvy made their way back to the watchtower. They said hi to the guards and collected the engine (which someone had thoughtfully moved so it would stay in shadow as the suns rolled on the sky).  
They were still obscenely dirty, and getting a bit low on energy, so it felt only natural that Cavvy invited Pipes to drop by his place to get cleaned and refueled.

On their way to a scrapyard exit they stopped once more to dig up something interesting that Cavvy's tails sensed.  
'Something' turned out to be five six feet long metal bars. Cavvy was elated, because one of his friends loved working with that particular alloy. Of course, his other friend could make the alloy any day, but it needed to be stored for at least two centuries to acquire mechanical qualities the first friend valued so much, so this bars would be perfect.

Since metallurgy was on Pipes's list of things-that-would-make-a-good-hobby-if-the-war-EVER-ended', he voiced his interest. Cavvy was more than happy to explain the changes on molecular level that occurred in aging metals. It occupied them all the way to Cavvy's home, which was why Pipes only noticed the structure when he was right in front of the gate, and he did a _massive_ double-take.

"Whoa. You live here?"  
"Uh-huh," Cavvy nodded happily, punching in the pass code. "Come on, let's go to the wash rack first; they'd kick us out anyway if we came in the workshop covered in this stuff."  
"Uh... okay..." Pipes didn't really register the reasoning. He was still too busy gaping at the building.

He had somehow expected Cavvy to live in something resembling the motel they were staying in. Or in a hired apartment at best. But this? This was a mansion. Big, segmented and yet compact building, designed and built by someone who wanted to have a living space for several mechs, small factory, workshop, warehouse, small ambulatory wing and Primus knows what else at the back, all in one place.

Each segment had boundaries clear enough to identify, but not separated enough to break the mass of the building. And although they were all designed and adorned in one significant style, each one had little twists and touches taken from traditional municipal architecture, which allowed to easily recognize each segment's purpose. Pipes's gaze skipped from one little detail to the other, easily recognizing them from Huffer's and Grapple's peace-stories.

"Classy," he finally commented. "Hey Cavvy, wait up!" He jogged to join his friend as he entered the wing with narrow yet tall windows, typical for communal baths - and sure enough, there was a spacey wash rack room inside. And the dispenser hanging on the wall promised a variety of cleansers that would made even Sunstreaker stop scowling and squeal with joy. Pipes grinned.

* * *

_The second of Mondern, nearing the end __of the second shift_

After they both gleamed like a cut crystal, Cavvy led the way through what at the first glance looked like a maze of corridors (although later on Pipes learned it was very easy to navigate once you knew the pattern).

They found Cavvy's coworkers scattered in the workshop, tinkering with their projects. (In one case the project seemed to involve bending spare support rods in tight spirals, but hey, who was Pipes to judge?)

"That's my team," Cavvy said cheerfully. "Hey guys! This is Pipes."

All the mechs present turned to look at them, and Pipes found himself under close scrutiny of red optics and optic bands.

"Pit, that was fast," the mech with the support rods commented. "The warrant only just came out."  
Cavvy tilted his head in visible confusion. "What warrant?" he asked.  
"Arrest warrant, what other kind is there?" the mech huffed, while the rest took several steps to take a closer look at Pipes, and Cavvy protectively pulled the minibot closer, at the same time demanding to know what his friend was talking about.

Pipes barely noticed. Ever since he walked in the workshop there was a little nagging voice in the back of his CPU, telling him he was missing something important. But it wasn't until he saw the synchronized, almost choreographed way the 'team' moved together that he realized that he knew those mechs. Granted, he only ever saw them few times before, and with Earth altmodes, but he still knew them. And they were a very bad crowd for an Autobot to fall in with.  
"Oh, scrap," he murmured under his breath.  
Which pretty much summed up the situation.


	6. Chapter 5: Technology

**A/N: **I... am not dead, and neither is the story. I would like to thank those late-coming reviewers who asked for continuation and mobilized me to dig up my story notes, and that one anonymous commenter on live journal, who kept prodding and poking me, and who wouldn't go away until I got my lazy rear in gear and delivered. Thank you, persistent anonymous person! :D (BTW, LJ seems to be still having problems, as it does something really strange to any text I try to post, so I won't be uploading this chapter there until that's resolved.) And now, I sheepishly present the horribly delayed... **  
**

**Chapter 5****  
****Technology**

-5-

-5-

* * *

_**The second star to the right and straight on till four millions years ago...**_

_The destruction of solar tower would be the final blow to shatter the Autobots' already crumbling morale, Soundwave assured his leader. They had been making pests of themselves so far, crawling around the place, trying to mine for resources, interfering with Megatron's own power-harvesting endeavors, and taking random pot-shots at his warriors. They even had the gall to steal the technology of creating energon cubes. It cost them a life of their spy, but they put the stolen data to good use - or so they thought. They cannibalized the Ark for parts to build a solar tower, as if they forgot that no amount of heroism and positive attitude could help them defend the construction against a war spacecraft lurking hidden above the blue sky. Megatron smirked lazily, watching the targeting screen. He'd called his troops to witness the destruction of Autobots' last hope. Strangely enough, it was the Constructicons, not Starscream, who dared to question his plan this time, but they were quickly put in their place, and a single shot from the Nemesis's main weapon was fired. Few breems later Astrotrain touched down next to the Ark. Megatron disembarked and with great satisfaction surveyed the smoking crater. Just to add an insult to injury, he unsubspaced a severed head of the Autobot spy and tossed the trophy in the pit, to rest among the remains of the tower and its operators. Then he turned to the Ark. "You have no chance of winning, Optimus Prime!" he called. "Surrender, and I might even allow some of your troops to live, if they prove useful to me!" _

_None of the Autobots surrendered. Megatron kept few of them alive anyway, stashed in stasis boxes for later use. The rest, he obliterated. Then he filled the Nemesis to the brim with energon cubes, turned it around and went back home. _

_The starved Cybertron welcomed him with open arms_.

* * *

**_The second of Mondern, beginning of the second shift_**

It was inevitable that Grapple would be drawn to the most impressive piece of engineering art in the vicinity, Hoist thought, watching his friend fondly. He was glad to see that the crane was more interested in the construct than bitter about it.

Although Hoist wouldn't dream of saying so aloud, he'd been... seriously angry with Optimus, when the Autobot leader vetoed Grapple's solar tower project. It's been a splendid project; it would have provided the Autobots with energy in abundance, and make them independent of human governments whims. But Optimus said that they didn't have resources to build and defend it, and it would be too dangerous if it fell in Decepticons hands. On that pretense the project was dropped, which indirectly led to this whole mess with the Constructicons. Grapple got in trouble, while Optimus got to once again play the benevolent leader who forgives and forgets.

And not even a week later, Wheeljack got both permission AND resources to build a highly dangerous weapon under so meager as to be non-existent protection of human military base. Grapple's involvement in this project? Why, he'd been called to build a _bunker_ for the token Autobot guard-unit to be stationed in.

It was like a slap to the face, and ever since Grapple was slowly drifting into depression. All his little pet projects sat unattended on their shelves, gathering dust. The only times the engineer would be seen with tools in his hands was when he was ordered to build another this-or-other-temporary-construction-for-the-Decepticons-to-shoot-at. Next to Red Alert's spectacular malfunction, Grapple's quiet withdrawal went mostly unnoticed. But Hoist saw, and he worried. He tried quite a number of tactics to lift his friend's mood, but they all failed in the long term.  
So it warmed Hoist's spark to see the excited gleam in Grapple's optics, as he scanned the structure towering over them, and pointed out particularly interesting design elements.

Unaware of his friend's musing, Grapple craned his neck and stretched his sensors to their limits to get a clearer reading of structure of the lowest solar panel.

"This is rather remarkable," he said, pointing out a part of design to Hoist. "I wouldn't have thought of it, but it might-"

"What are you punks staring at?"

Grapple started and turned to look at the bot who emerged from the power station to glare at them hostilely. He was a good deal shorter than Grapple, with orange detailing, spread over his pristine white paint in almost organic twisting coils. There were even fine orange lines swirling over his facial features, at the moment intensifying an angry snarl.  
"Well?" The bot snapped.  
"We were admiring the design," Grapple said, since it was in his circuits to say the truth when asked. And then his devotion for all things technical got the better of him.

"It is quite unusual solution, to use duranium conducts in transmitter contacts coupled with Phrener's breakers; I imagine it allows for higher transition rate, but doesn't it cause fluctuations in the current?"

The mech's posture lost the aggressive edge. "It does," he said slowly, looking them up and down. "And what would you suggest we do about it?"  
Flabbergasted, Grapple stuttered a little. "Oh, I, I can't really say without a proper brief of the problem, but surely some kind of wire coating would improve stability? And it's possible that field overlapping of multiple system loops could help, if calculated correctly."

The strange mech looked mildly impressed. "You don't say," he said, giving the two Autobots a look that could only be described as calculating. "You're engineers?"

"Why, yes. Although Hoist's main line of work is medical maintenance," Grapple said.  
"And Grapple's is architecture and semi-autonomic systems," Hoist supplied.  
The mech's orange optics shone a bit brighter.  
"Cute. You're looking for a job?"  
"No," said Grapple.  
"Yes," said Hoist.  
The mech huffed. "Yes or no?"

"We could use some extra credits, but we aren't sure how long we will stay in the city," Hoist clarified, quickly flaring his EM field at his friend to let him know to be quiet. He'd always been the voice of reason in their tandem, and Sideswipe's example seemed worth following. (Although it was probably the sign of end of the world coming when it was _Sideswipe_ of all mechs to set a good example). "If you have a use for our skills on short time basis, we'll be happy to provide"

"I think we can work out some deal. I'm Chipswitch, and don't try to be smart about it," Chipswitch said curtly and glared, as if daring them to be smart about it.

A little at a loss on how to react to that, Hoist nodded and said "Of course," which apparently was the right thing to do, as Chipswitch put his metaphorical hackles down and turned to the tower entrance. "Come on in," he said, coding the door open and waving them in.

-5-

The inside of solar tower took Grapple by surprise. He somehow expected it to look like the rough-and-ready, hastily assembled constructions he'd grown used to building on Earth - full of dented, sometimes rusted parts scavenged from older projects, with barely-there, thin wall paneling - bare alloys and all - meant only to cover, not to protect important systems, and with cables strewn all over the ceiling.

What he saw instead was what he _should_ have expected in one of, if not the, most important buildings in a prosperous city: a well lit corridor with flawless, brightly painted walls and dark floor panels, covered with layer of a protective, translucent synthetic. They followed Chipswitch past a row of doors, behind which Grapple not so much heard, as felt a low hum of working machinery. It tugged at his EM field pleasantly, and almost made him want to skip down the corridor like a sparklet. He didn't, of course. But he smiled a very happy smile and kept smiling until the corridor opened to a vast lobby and he looked up. Then the smile was replaced with an expression of absolute awe.  
The innermost part of the tower was hollow. Not all the way to top, perhaps - that would be structurally unsound - but still high enough that he couldn't see the ceiling. There was a ramp spiraling upwards along the walls, and countless number of walkways spanning the room at seemingly random intervals. It took Grapple a moment to realize that there were sealed doors at the end of every walkway and along the winding ramp. His optics shone.

"Impressive, huh?" Chipswitch said, rather pleased with the reaction. "You can access every part of the tower from here, even on foot if you're not flight-capable."  
Except, of course, if there was an emergency requiring to seal off some part of the tower, but one had to draw a line when disclosing trade secrets to hired personnel, and Chipswitch drew it at revealing the details of security systems.

He transmitted a code that opened the door to design office and showed the two mech inside. "Wait here, won't you. I'll be back in a klik," he said, discretely making sure that all security cameras in the room were recording and all the consoles locked. Then he left, sealing the door behind him, and rushed to the personnel room.

He pulled up his organizer and reshuffled the tasks he'd planned for today, to give himself some time to supervise the two bots in between tasks which couldn't be moved to tomorrow.  
He went to his locker and dug out his archived notes from the University and downloaded several files on a sketch-pad. He hesitated over a handful of trash-cards. He sifted through them, and settled on one that held 55 credits. It was a little over a half of his daily wage, and more than a fair pay for a shift-worth of consultations, in his opinion. From the a filing cabinet he pulled several legally binding sign-and-go forms, and a few blank ones.  
Lastly, he grabbed a ten-pack of coolant from the personnel allotment, and, after some deliberation, he also retrieved two cubes of very nice, highly concentrated energon. They came from his very own stash, but he decided to think of it as an investment. If those two walking antics could help him provide a valid improvement plan for the energy output, his pay would skyrocket. It would be well worth it.

He was moving to leave the room, when he heard a faint clatter above him. It was all the warning he got before something landed on his head, ten multi-jointed legs digging in the crevices of his helmet crest. With a startled yelp Chipswitch flailed and instinctively subspaced all items he held to avoid dropping them.  
The next moment a tiny face with a bright, crimson red optical band swung down to get right into his face.

"Yo, Chipper!"  
"Rust it all, Rattle, don't do this!" Chipswitch made to swat the casseticon off himself, but the little fragger was already leaping away and on a nearby table. Once there, he stood on three pairs of legs, keeping the better part of his segmented body upright, and started making mocking, cluttering noises at Chipswitch. The white and orange mech scowled.

"You keep doing that, you little scrapyard refuse. Someday, someone will mistake you for a virus-ridden retro-rat mutant and shoot you. And I shall relish that day."  
He unsubspaced a cleaning cloth and ostentatiously wiped traces of grease and energon residue off his helmet. The casseticon just snorted to show his utter disregard for the prediction  
"Whatever, _Switchy_. Would you happen to know why there are two unauthorized mechs in 'authorized personnel only' area?"

"I'm hiring them for consultations, _pest_. Would you happen to have some work to do? _Away_ from here?"  
"A-huh." As per usual, Rattle completely ignored the hint. "And the bosses know about that hiring thing, right?"  
"They will when I tell them. You can stop prying into my job and go back to yours now, thank you."

"Your recycle service, Mr. Shiny. Don't expect me to cover for you if they screw up anything." With a final haughty clatter, the casseticon transformed into his alt-mode, which Chipswitch liked to refer to as 'a flying ring of flashy annoyance', and flew away into one of maintenance ducts, loudly humming the 'Chipper and Switchy' theme song.  
"I hate that show," Chipswitch murmured.

* * *

After a few moments of wandering around the spacious office and admiring the highly functional layout, Grapple and Hoist settled in a pair of chairs, which looked like they were designed just for them. (And were as comfy as they looked too). They took a moment to calculate the amount of time they could spend at the tower before they'd be due to meet up back with their team. They were discussing whether or not it would be wise to split, with Grapple remaining at the tower to work in peace, while Hoist reported their newly found occupation to the rest, when the door pinged and swished open and Chipswitch walked in.  
"All right, let's hop to it," he said, unceremoniously dumping contents of his subspace pocket on one of the tables. Something round and brightly colored bounced of the table top, but Chipswith immediately caught and hid it, murmuring something unflattering about his coworker. Then he fished out a pack of dark bottles and two energon cubes of the pile of items, and pushed them toward the Autobots. "Help yourselves if you need to," he said carelessly, and started picking through the scattered sketchpads and datapads.  
The two Autobots exchange bemused glances, then Hoist shrugged and helped himself to a bottle of coolant.  
"Ah, here it is," Chipswitch apparently found what he was looking for. "All right, so I know already that you know a Phrener's breaker when you scan it, but you apparently don't know about Phrener circuit. It's a recent thing, and it's still in prototyping stage. Here, this is the standard version, and this is my modification to it." he passed Grapple a datapad with two opened files. "You can see where the problem is?"  
Grapple frowned, focusing on the schematics. Hoist stood up and walked to him to look over his shoulder.

Chipswitch stacked his datapads in a neat pile, then grabbed a bottle of coolant and sipped while the old-bots studied the files. After a few minutes the orange one - Grapple, wasn't it? - spoke.

"Why, yes, I believe I can see the problem. The original one, I believe, is quite stable but not particularly efficient. Your version significantly reduces the energy loss on transmission routs, but the stability of the circuit suffers, is that correct?"  
Very pleased with the assessment, Chipswitch nodded.

"Eg-zactly. And just that you can see that is recommendation enough for me, so we may as well skip the whole qualifications test and what-not. But, you have to sign these." He thrust confidentiality forms at the two mechs. "It's a standard deal, you're not allowed to copy any of the materials I disclose to you, nor use them beyond this station in any manner, for any reason, yadda yadda, or else you face legal consequences. AND, much more importantly, my bosses will have your afts. And you don't want to mess with my bosses. They've been in the War, you know," he added proudly. The mechs looked properly cowed by mention of War-veteran bosses, and signed the forms without protest, after a cursory scan of the text. They promised to stay and work on a problem to the end of the shift at least, and they agreed that 55 credits was a fair advance payment for their time. They even forgo signing any formal contract, and seemed to be satisfied with a vague promise that, had they provided a valable solution, a higher remuneration could be considered. His day was looking better and better with every passing klik.

"Alright, then," Chipswitch said as he activated holoscreens, plugged in a datapad and pulled up diagrams of several components and enclosed technical documentation. "Here you go. This is a working copy of the files, so you can mess with them as much as you want. Have at it. I'll have to leave you for a bit, I've got things that need doing. Ping me if you need me."

-5-

"I hope he doesn't try to introduce us to his 'bosses'," Hoist said after Chipswitch left. "The odds that they know us personally are rather slim, but it could still get awkward."  
Grapple, already immersed in the diagrams, merely made a sound of agreement. Hoist smiled and let him be. To occupy his time, he started looking through the datapads left on the table. Several contained some kind of document forms. One held a few hundred book-files, ranging from novels to research documentation to science essays, all neatly cataloged. One held a copy of files Grapple was reviewing right now, and one held... what looked like complete blueprints of the entire solar tower.  
"Grapple," Hoist said, "you've got to see this."

And see it Grapple did.  
"I must say you look quite smitten," Hoist commented after a while.

"I think," Grapple said with great deliberation, staring at the 3D display in front of him, "I'm in love."  
The building was perfect. Not a single design flaw that he could find. Not a single excess support beam. Safety devices and back-up systems covered every single emergency he could think of. Not in a million years could he hope to build anything equally flawless. There were things he would have done differently, of course. There were angles that could be a little wider, and some lines that could be shorter, but those were just esthetic details. Structurally, this tower was pure perfection.

It took several prods from Hoist for Grapple to finally tear himself away from the building's blueprints. He moved to schematics of energon gathering systems, and those made him frown in puzzlement.

It was a curious blend of several different technologies. One he was familiar with - it was the very same system he'd based his own solar tower on. It was, of course modified to be used on much larger scale, improved and built upon... but the general concept was _there, _and it was easy for him to grasp all the mechanics and advantages and disadvantages stemming from them. What gave him pause were extensive patches of systems based on completely different paradigm.

"Curious," Grapple muttered, studying the schematics intently. "Why fuse two different technologies?" It wasn't that they didn't mesh well - they did seem to function on a satisfactory level at least. It was that he couldn't see why the foreign technology was implemented at all, as there was no discernible benefit to the system on the whole. It didn't make sense to break integrity of the system if it didn't make it work better.

There were also patches he could understand - they were obviously upgrades, implemented over time as technological development allowed.

The main capacitor and energy distribution center, for example, looked like something taken from a sci-fi novel. Perceptor would probably have little problem with understanding the workings of that part of machinery, but for Grapple it was a mystery.  
There was also the one solar panel that Chipswitch wanted them to work on. Time stamp on this part of blueprints was not even a meta-cycle old, and there were many annotations informing of minor tweaks and modifications, complete with meticulous notes on effect they had on system's efficiency. Chipswitch was quite obviously trying out a newly developed technology, hoping to improve energy output.

The two main systems that made up majority of the tower inner workings, however, had been clearly developed at the same time. Grapple spent some time going over the unfamiliar system, to make sure he properly understood it, and then spent some more time trying to figure out why it was used. He came up with nothing, which rather upset him. He tapped the part of schematics showing a junction where two systems met. It was possible that in this particular area the familiar system would be inferior to the alien one, but he just couldn't see how. Perhaps if he could see how his preferred technology would work out... Decisively, Grapple circled the problematic area, drew a line from there to the nearest bit of empty space and started sketching out alternative layout and connections. When he run out of empty space again, he skipped to another clear place and went on, quickly changing a neat and precise schematics into a navigational nightmare. All Grapples design sheets tended to look like this. They were practically impossible to read, unless you were A) Grapple, B) present and watching at the time they were made, and also named Hoist.

Knowing perfectly well his friend's little faults, Hoist picked up an empty sketch pad and hastily copied everything that appeared under Grapple's stylus, arranging all the schematics and equations into something readable. Occasionally he'd ask a question or point out an alternative solution. They worked like that for a good hour, until Grapple huffed, threw his hand up and declared that he had no idea why the designers of the systems decided to replace parts of the it with different technology, when it was obvious that sticking with the original one would work just as efficiently, and would avoid several system-to-system transition problems.

Irritated with the unsolved mystery, Grapple moved to the files Chipswitch had originally displayed for them. Hoist created a new folder on his sketchpad.

* * *

**_The second of Mondern, __three forths into t__he second shift_**

Chipswitch had meant to keep checking in on his unexpected hirelings every five or six breems, but the solar tower was one demanding lady today. First, the main converter decided to be finicky again. Then the security computer pinged him and he went to chase away a bunch of local graffitists. Then a main fuse blew in the forth sector of Science District, suddenly cutting off one of power outputs, and Chipswitch needed to store their due energy until they replaced the fuse. And then it was high noon, and he needed to manually control the movement of solar panels, to compensate for minute oscillations of overheated metal. Technically, he _could_ have left it to the automatic control system, but that would mean that some of the panels wouldn't be set to optimal angle at the key period of time, which meant they would catch less light than they could, which meant that energy output would be 0,5% below optimum. Unthinkable!

So it was quite late into the shift when he finally made his way to the design office. The first thing he saw upon entering very nearly gave him a core meltdown. The blueprints of _entire primusdamned tower_ were displayed on the main design table. He was about to fly into a magnificent fit of rage, demanding how they put their paws on it, when he noticed the datapad plugged into the table. _His_ datapad, holding a complete tower documentation, which he always carried with him and which, he realized, he must have left behind by mistake when he'd upturned his sub-pocket earlier. He was seriously going to kill Rattle.

"The confidentiality slip includes ever mentioning you've ever seen those," he said waspishly, pointing at the display. The mechs looked up from one of auxilary tables.

"Of course," the greenish one said. "And speaking of which, could you tell us why the base system is actually a mesh of two different systems? It's been driving Grapple crazy."  
"Huh." Well, it was nice to know he wasn't the only one. "It's because it's been originally based on an existing tower that got smashed up in the War. There were no blueprints, and the mechs who built it were dead, so they just figured out what they could from the pieces, and filled in the holes with what they had at hand. It worked, so it stayed that way." And _rust_ but it was annoying. In the early stages of his employment Chipswitch'd tried to figure out how the original system would look in the patched up areas, but all he concluded was that it must have somehow employed co-influence of independent system loops, and those were juuuuuust a little bit above his level. "Anyway, have you got anything on the panel you were supposed to work on?"

Grapple looked like he was about to say something more about the tower, but at the question he brightened and snapped his attention to the subject at hand.

"Oh, yes. Hoist suggested rewiring several integrated circuits to configuration similar to the ones in powerplant in Cybertronian bodies, which would normally be impractical in industrial use, but with this new circuit layout, and several adjustments here and here..." The bot went on, pointing out parts on a... horrible, horrible mess of a blueprint. Chipswitch stared. His dread must have shown on his face, because the ...uh... Hoist, tapped his shoulder and handed him a datapad which made the other's explanations understandable. Apparently, they did find a possibly valable solution. And wouldn't you know, it involved co-influence of independent system loops. Joy.

With a determined frown, Chipswitch focused on Grapple's explanations; they made sense when he thought of each problem separately. When he tried to put them all into a coherent concept in his head, they floated together, gained shape, focused... and then, with an evil giggle, went right over his head, tantalizingly close but just out of reach. Primus fragging damn it. He hated it when he could quite _get_ a concept, which he could _feel_ should make sense. It made him feel like he was back at one of Shockwave's sub-space physics lectures. What's even worse, there went the option of presenting the new design as his own. Sure he could _try_, but his claim wouldn't last past first few questions his bosses were bound to ask. And he'd rather not loose the best post in the city for being caught lying, thank you very much. Speaking of which, if he wanted those two working on the problem for a longer period of time, he should really clear it with the bosses. He was already stretching his authorization to hire subcontractors, as it was really meant for seasonal maintenance personnel, not assistant engineers.

"All right, you two, keep working. I need to take care of few things." he groused.

"Of course," Grapple nodded absently, his processor already focused on another equation.  
_

* * *

**_The second of Mondern, nearing the end of __t__he second shift_**

"Good day, sir," Chipswitch greeted his main superior as soon as his call was accepted. The mech always detested beating around the wiring, so Chipswitch went to the point right away. "I found a pair of mechs I'd like to hire for consultations and designing works. They've provided some ideas I think are worth exploring, here," he said, plugging the datapad in the console for his boss to access, and only then he realized with some trepidation that the mech looked even more cross than usual, and there seemed to be some commotion in the background.

"I hope for your sake it's worth my time," the mech huffed, and pulled the files up on the screen. He perused them impatiently, with a half focused gaze that probably meant he was talking with someone on the comm at the same time. Chipswitch waited, not exactly patiently but silently. It took him a moment to realize that the file currently on display was not his pet project, but some part of the main tower system. He was about to mention that, when his boss suddenly focused all his attention on the schematics, and demanded sharply, "Who did you say made those?"

"Pair of mechs from outside Vos, Grapple and Hoist, they were-"

His boss's visor brightened, and he interrupted sharply. "Get them on screen, I want to see them."

"Uh, yes, just a moment," Chipswitch said, and patched the call to one of screens in the design office (for he was _not_ going to let the two strangers in the control room). "Won't take a klik, sir," he assured and rushed out.

-5-

"Hey, you've got a call," he announced barging in the design office half a klik later. The two mechs turned to him as he booted up the screen and accepted the patched through transmission. His boss's face appeared on the screen, and a sound of two engines stuttering in surprise sounded, followed by a moment of complete silence, while the three mechs stared at each other across the screen.

"Hook?" Grapple finally said hesitantly; as if that were a magic word, Hook unfroze and with a lightening speed he hit some keys on a control panel in front of him.  
An alert siren blared once, and with a hiss all doors in the solar tower closed and sealed.

Chipswitch jumped and looked around wildly.

"What? Sir, what?"

Not in the least moved by his employee's distress, Hook kept his gaze on Grapple's shock-blank stare.

"Chipswich, make sure he doesn't go anywhere until we get there." And just like that, the screen went blank. Incredulous, Chipswitch turned to the pair of mechs.  
"What the rust was that about? You know the boss?" He asked, only to be completely ignored. From the wild buzz of static in his comm he could guess that they were talking frantically over the radio, and from the small tense gestures he could guess they were very far from happy. And that's when the entirety of situation sank in for him.

He was locked in an emergency-sealed tower, in a company of two agitated mechs twice his size. Two mechs twice his size, whom his boss seemed to know. Two agitated mechs whose frames were so outdated that they could easily be old enough to remember the War. And, to complete the picture, they were wearing badges which Chipswitch initially took for good-willers' sigil, but now that he took a better look, he could see they were a little different. And the 'Children of Space's sigil was allegedly derived from insignia of the Autobots. Oh. Dear. _Primus_.

There was a gun hidden in one of lockers across the room for just this kind of situation. Heaps of good it would do him, Chipswitch thought bitterly. Even if he managed to get past the possibly dangerous mechs to get to it, he wouldn't know which end should be pointed which way. He'd never handled a gun in his life!

Luckily for Chipswitch, before he could drive himself into a panic attack, his commlink crackled to live with Rattle's annoyed voice.

** "What the frag, Chipswitch? Are your hired bots going nova or what?" **

** "I don't know! The boss took one look at them and locked us in! It looked like they knew each other."** He commed back frantically, and then, desperately wanting to be told otherwise, he asked, **"You don't think could be Autobots, do you?"**

**"Pfft, yeah, Autobots on Cybertron, right"** pure dismissal in the casseticon's voice was a balm for Chipswitch's spark. **"Probably just a competition. Either way, I'll be right with you."**

And sure enough, after a few moment of tense silence, in which Chipswitch tried his best to become one with the wall while Hoist and Grapple continued to confer frantically on a private comm-line, one of the maintenance ducts entrances opened noiselessly. Rattle peaked out cautiously, spooling hacking cables back into his side. Unnoticed by the two possibly-intruders, he crept down the wall to the weapons locker, opened it and slipped inside. Moments later he was gripping a standard issue blaster, supporting it with six arms.

**"They try anything funny, I drop them,"** he said smugly over the radio.

In any other context he would look ridiculous. But right here, right now, he was a sight of wonder that made Chipswitch sag in relief. Thank the Primus below for sneaky cassettes with basic battle-training. Never ever again was he going to tease Rattle about his militaristic leanings. With that resolution, he settled against the wall and waited for the whine of space-bridge to come from the lobby.

-5-

**"All right, let's do it."** Hoist radioed to Grapple. Their moment of initial panic was done and over with. After a short discussion Grapple reluctantly agreed that they should probably make a break for it before Hook arrived. He insisted, however, that they try not to destroy anything on the way out, and Hoist agreed, though for different reasons than Grapple's. The architect simply couldn't stand a thought of damaging this wonderful construction. Hoist's reasoning was more practical - one, blowing their way through the walls would take much more time than opening the door, and two, if they were caught, leaving a trail of destruction behind them would make their situation even worse. It didn't matter what faction you belonged to, having your property damaged tended to piss people off. So they agreed to persuade, or, if that failed, bully Chipswitch into letting them out. The bullying part didn't sit well with either of them - terrorizing innocent civilians was the exact opposite of what they believed in - but the tower operator seemed so unnerved by the situation that they didn't think it would be really necessary. However the moment Hoist stepped toward the white and orange mech, an unmistakeable sound of a charging weapon sounded behind them, and a sharp voice said, "Stay where you are, pal!"

Hoist whirled around, automatically transforming his right hand into a gun. He raised it, ready to defend himself... only to find there was no-one behind them. Or rather, no-one easily seen, he discovered a nanoklik later, when he was shot with a nasty discharge that all but paralyzed his entire arm.

"There's more where that came from," the voice said, and only then Hoist spotted a... thing, barely bigger than his forearm, effortlessly holding a gun much bigger than itself. The sight was so absurd that for a moment Hoist and Grapple just froze. And exactly in that moment, the door beeped and slid open to let not one, but all six Constructicons in. The Autobots' sparks sank right through the floor.

The massive mech on the front whom they barely recognized as Bonecrusher took a look at the scene, sniffed, and jerked his thumb toward the door.

"Go check if you're not somewhere else, you two," he said. With a happy "Yessir" and nonchalant "Sure, boss", Chipswitch and the weird tiny mech made themselves scarce.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Bonecrusher rotated a gun on his arm to aim in their general direction, and leaned against the nearest table, assuming a nonchalantly threatening pose.  
The rest of Constructicons stepped closer, and, as if to prove that there was indeed a worse to every worst, Grapple spotted a small blue figure among the obnoxious neon green.

"You too?" Grapple murmured.

"Sorry," Pipes answered dejectedly, not even trying to shake the hold one of the 'Cons had on his arm. "I didn't recognize them".

Grapple thrummed his engine in a poor attempt at comfort, and braced himself for the worst. He wasn't entirely sure what he expected to happen next, but a repeat performance of his last meeting with the gestalt, or the good old 'capture&interrogate' gig seemed viable option.  
Instead, four of the Constructicons barely spared them a glance and crowded around the table, examining schematics Grapple's been working on. Bonecrusher remained where he was, while the 'Con holding Pipes scuttled closer to the Autobots. It took a quick elimination process for Grapple to identify the mech as Scavenger. Tentatively, he tried his radio, and when the transmission wasn't blocked nor commented upon by the 'Cons, he hailed Pipes to asked how exactly did he end up here.

-5-

Outside the design office, one relieved mech and one giddy cassetticon looked at each other.

"He had an in-built gun," Rattle said with an excited gleam in his visor, bouncing in place on his long legs. Chipswitch shuddered minutely at the memory. "Yeah," he said. And then, because he really couldn't stop himself, he added, "But you didn't actually '_drop'_ him."

"It was a warning shot," Rattle informed him haughtily. Then he cackled gleefully. "It was awesome. Hire more random mechs from the street in the future."  
"No way in the Pit," Chipswitch murmured, then thought about the unfinished schematics of the new system, and sighed regretfully. "Wanna drink after the shift's over? I've got a tube of Lounge's Gold."  
"Whoa, you bet I want a drop of that. See you in a few, then?"

Chipswitch nodded, and they parted to wrap up their duties for the day.

-5-

While Pipes and Grapple filled each other in on the day's events, Hoist studied the Constructicons. He could hardly blame Pipes for not recognizing the gestalt. They looked so _different_ in Cybertron altmodes. They were more massive and menacing than when they were mimicking primitive, clumsy Earth vehicles. And they had such elegant, functional designs, too.

Hoist eyed Longhaul's frame enviously. The Constructicon had gained some extra kibble that doubtlessly translated to multitasking tools in altmode, but they were functional in root mode too - as Hoist watched, one of jibes tucked against the truck-former's back moved to pull up a chair. Hoist drummed his fingers against his still numb right arm and resolved to reformat himself into something similar when - if - they got back home. Then he scoffed at himself. Thinking about upgrades while kept prisoner by enemy forces was, to put it mildly, silly. On the other hand, as prisoner situations went, this one was... not really adding up.

Most of the 'enemy forces' were practically ignoring them.

Bonecrusher was watching them like a hawk, true, but there was no overt malice in his gaze. If anything, he looked simply curious, which was doubly strange as a good part of his frame was covered in blistered, flaking paint that gave of the characteristic smell of Pipes's battle gas. Speaking of which, the hold that Scavenger had on Pipes's arm looked more comforting than restraining. Whether the comfort was meant for Pipes or for Scavenger himself was anyone's guess. It was hard to tell which of the two looked more miserable at the moment. As the Earth saying went, it was all getting curiouser and curiouser.

Finally the bulk of the Constructicons straightened up from poring over scribbled on schematics and turned to face the unlucky engineers.

"So..." Hook said slowly. "You say you are Grapple..." he shifted his gaze to the other Autobot "...and Hoist."

"That's our names," Hoist answered with strained politeness, for it is unwise to be impolite to a complete gestalt team when you don't have one of your own behind your back.

"That's funny..." Bonecrusher drawled.  
"... 'Cause Grapple and Hoist are de-de-dead," Mixmaster finished seamlessly, and Bonecrusher picked up again "...and we know, 'cuz we were there when that-"  
"That **High Commander**," Hook intersected sharply, and Bonecrusher scowled, rumbling discontentedly over what was doubtlessly a lot less flattering term. "Yeah, him - executed them," he finished.

"But that," Scrapper said, waving his hand at the schematics, "has 'Grapple' written all over it. So..."

"Explanation, if you please?" Hook finished, staring at them expectantly.

Grapple looked over at Hoist, only to see that his friend looked just as dumbfounded as Grapple felt. If they'd disappeared never to return at some point in the past, it would stand to reason they'd be considered dead. But how having someone witness their execution fit into this? They turned to Pipes, who returned their blank look with a little shrug, as if to say 'what are you looking at me for?'

"Well?" Hook prompted impatiently, and all Grapple could do was to spread his hands helplessly.

"Would you believe we honestly don't know?"

* * *

**_The second of Mondern, beginning of the third shift_**

Breems passed. In the personnel room, Rattle and Chipswitch shared a drink, and warned the just arrived third-shift mechs to steer clear of the design office.

In the design office, nine mechs conferred.

Encouraged by the Constructions' continued lack of hostility, Grapple recounted the unusual circumstances of their arrival, carefully editing the not present Autobots out of the story. He needn't have bothered, as Bonecrusher gleefully informed them, picking flakes of blistered paint off his shoulder. Apparently, a detainment warrant for 'all ten of them' had been issued a few breems before the end of second shift, which, incidentally, was why the gestalt team captured Pipes. No, they didn't know why the warrant was issued, and couldn't care less. As further gentle prodding disclosed, they weren't all that interested in turning the Autobots in either. From the few offhanded comments the Autobots gathered that the Constructicons had been quite upset over Grapple's execution, and were rather pleased to have a second chance to meet him. Which, of course, led back to Grapple and Hoist's 'miraculous' return to life.

Unsure as to which one of their friends weren't on the warrant, and not particularly inclined to fully trust the gestalt team just yet, Grapple opted to play it safe, and made sure not to mention any names. So it was 'their inventor' who'd built a prototype space-bridge, in a company of 'couple of other scientists' and 'a guard detail'.

"...and something went wrong with the bridge. It sucked us all in and brought us here."

A skeptic red stare times six met his story.  
"And that's it?" Longhaul asked, incredulously. "You just space-jumped here? So, who was it..." he started a question, "...that we saw vaporized, huh? Huh?" Mixmaster finished.

"What I want to know," Scrapper said thoughtfully, "is when did you have time to build a bridge?"

Preferring not to think about anyone being vaporized, Grapple did a quick count to answer Scrapper's question.  
"About twelve years after we woke up from the crash."

"That's eleven meta-cycles," Hoist translated.  
"That's not right," Hook said with a frown. "Are we thinking of the same crash?"  
"_The Ark_ getting buried on a disgusting organic planet?" Scrapper supplied for clarification.

Hoist nodded. "Sounds right. We crashed and spent close to fifty thousand vorns in stasis, until the volcano erupted and woke as up."

"What? That's not what happened!" Bonecrusher objected, and was promptly silenced by a gesture from Scrapper.  
"That's not how it happened _for us_", the Constructicon spokesmech said. "Do you remember the Norcimo's cross-dimensional research project?"

Bonecrusher grinned a strangely predatory grin. "You mean the one they had to close down because that thing popped out of the space-bridge and totaled the whole research station? Pit, yeah. What about it?"  
Hook's visor glowed as he looked at Scrapper in understanding. "It was based on Shockwave's theory of branching realities and common points of subspace," Hook said. "And that theory included his speculations regarding existence of different history lines that shared common root but differed starting from a specific point in time," Scrapper added with a nod.  
There was a beat of silence.  
"Okay, now translate that from Geek to Mech," Longhaul and Bonecrusher said simultaneously. Half-hidden behind Scavenger's elbow, Pipes snickered.

* * *

**_The second of Mondern, one tenth into the third shift_**

The Constructicons might not be strictly scientists, but they had vast experience with building/repairing/tearing down space bridges, and as such they had fairy good grasp on the physics involved. They were happy to theorize about the situation. Well, four of them were. Bonecrusher lost interest after the '_They are from different dimension. Think "Twilight Area" series with actual science_' explanation. He was now just listening to the babble with half an audio, leaning against the wall and scanning the security and government channels for interesting info, while at the same time keeping a careful optic on their unexpected guests, just in case they sprouted carbon-based tentacles or something.  
As for Scavenger, he and Pipes had at some point drifted away to one of the tables, and were happily tinkering with several small knick-knacks they pulled out of subspace. Grapple, having lost all reservations towards the Constructicons, sat in the middle of the science!huddle, while Hoist sat a little to the side, testing his recovering right arm and keeping a careful optic on their unexpected hosts, just in case they suddenly reverted to the energon-hungry machines of destruction from their own, war-plagued reality.

He also quietly vowed to himself that, when/if they managed to rejoin their team and go back home, he was never going to mention the details of this day to anybody. No matter the circumstances, he didn't think the Autobots would forgive Grapple for so eagerly teaming up with the Constructicons yet _again_. His friend had caught enough flak a few years back, after that _other_ solar tower incident. None of the Autobots could understand how Grapple could so easily agree to cooperate with the enemy team. Well, how could they? They weren't there when Grapple was still a brand new, self-taught architect wannabe, full of dreams and hopes, while the Constructicons were one of the most famous and fought for design&construction teams. Back then, a chance to work alongside them was every architects dream, and Grapple was no exception. The War and destruction of Crystal City changed a lot, but some part of that youthful admiration stayed lodged in Grapple's spark, and it showed whenever given half a chance.

"Hey, guys," Longhaul said with an obnoxious layer of static in his voice, meant to draw everybody's attention, which effectively interrupting Hoist's musings. "Aren't we loosing focus here? We wanted Grapple, now we have Grapple. What do we need the parallel hocus-pocus for?"  
Grapple opened his mouth and froze like that when the comment sank in. The look on his face a picture of conflicting emotions, with alarming amount of awe and happiness. Hoist reset his vocalizer. "Because we'd like to go home at some point," he said very carefully, making sure that the point got across both to the Decepticons _and_ the Autobots present.

To his relief, it did have the desired effect. Well, kind of. The Constructicons seemed to get the message, but they also latched on the 'at some point' part of it.

At some point, the mechanics of their arrival would be discussed with some unspecified experts. At some point, contacts would be exploited and strings pulled to get the Police off their backs. At some point, means to get them back home would be discovered and realized. And until that point, the three Autobots would remind under Constructicons wings, working for them to pass the time. It was all very vague on the details, and delivered in small pieces by each Constructicon in turn, so when Hook finished it with "do we have a deal then?", none of the Autobots were entirely sure what exactly they were supposed to be agreeing to.

Grapple, still a little bit dazed, just nodded his consent. Pipes shrugged and followed suit, which left Hoist, who had some serious misgivings about all the vagueness, but decided to play along for now. "Fine with me," he said.

"Splendid!" Hook exclaimed enthusiastically, clasping his hands together. "Well then, Scrapper, dig up your contacts in 3H's science department. I'll make sure Chipswitch and Rattle know that today never happened. And 'Crusher, you'll have to find out what that warrant is all about, and cover for us until we sort it out."

Bonecrusher didn't answer straight away. He seemed to be staring into space, which meant that he was in fact reading messages displayed on his visor. Finally he smiled.

"Nice plan, but won't work" he said cheerfully, for finding flaws, be it in constructions or action plans, always made him happy.

Scrapper huffed a little cloud of steam impatiently. "Why?"

"'Cause while you were chatting about, the case was skipping up the confidentiality chain, and the orders kept changing faster than chamelo-bot on crack. Originally they wanted them brought to our PD, then to Kaon's PD, and now they're to be delivered straight to the capital."

It didn't mean much for the Autobot trio, but going by the looks on the Constructicons faces, it wasn't a good news.


End file.
